A Man in a Hat
by AndItsOuttaHere
Summary: What happens next? Will Raylan find a way to get Boyd for Devil's murder? What's next for Raylan and Winona? A story beginning from the Season 3 finale.
1. A Man in a Hat

_A/N and disclaimer...I don't own Justified, if I did, these two would find a way to work things out and I would _**_neve_**_r, ever run out of stories for them. Any dialogue direct from the finale is used with apologies, and Winona's thoughts are simply my interpretation. _

_This was written after nudging by MSBrooklyn. Thanks for the push, my dear!_

A Man in a Hat

"Winona, wake up." Gayle is shaking her, not gently. "Your damn cowboy is on my front porch. He says he wants to talk to you. Say the word and I'll tell him to go to..."

She sits up, shaking off the heaviness of sleep and throwing off the covers. "No, no. I'll talk to him."

Gayle rolls her eyes. "Of course you will." There's that sigh, so like their mother's, and her sister swings around, hands on her hips, pointing a finger at Winona. "I swear, if you go back to him _again.._."

"Let him in, Gayle, okay?" Running a hand through her tangled hair she shoves it up in a twist and sticks a pin in to hold it. Something must've happened to make him come here. They haven't talked since the day she found the gun that killed Gary. She'd texted after the last doctor's appointment to let him know everything was fine and he'd texted back a thank you. That was it. She misses him, but she can't afford to show it. Not to Gayle and certainly not to Raylan. She barely acknowledges it to herself. She takes a deep breath and walks out to meet him in the foyer.

"I'm going back to bed," Gayle says, shooting Raylan a murderous look. He dips his head and looks at Winona from under the hat. She can't help smiling.

"She doesn't like me," he says, when Gayle disappears down the hall.

Winona rolls her eyes. "You're very perceptive."

"God, I could use a drink."

"We've got milk. And I think there's some apple juice."

"Nothin' stronger?"

"Gayle and Peter don't drink," she says. She rests a hand on the slight bulge of her belly. "Neither do I at the moment."

The hat is off and he runs a hand through his hair. "Got water?"

"That I have." She goes to the kitchen and gets him some, hands him the glass and walks down the hall to the bedroom, her only bastion of privacy in this house. He follows without a word.

The room is small anyway, and now it's packed with the rocker, the hand-me-down crib, and the baby supplies Gayle keeps stockpiling. You'd think Winona was due any day with twins. Raylan finds the chair shoved next to the crib and sinks down with a sigh.

She leans in the door frame, keeping her distance. "Why are you here?"

He looks up at her. "This how it's gonna be? You really wanna do it this way?"

He looks so defeated, so tired and spent. If he asks her right now to come back...if he says he misses her...needs her...she pushes the thought away. "Raylan...really...why are you here?"

He starts talking about Harlan. She should have known. God, she _hates_ that place. Then he mentions a dead trooper and she stops him.

"Was he married?"

He doesn't look at her, just nods slowly. "Two kids."

She swallows hard, hugging her arms to her chest, and he's off again, telling about Wynn Duffy, whose name sounds familiar, some mobster from Detroit, and two kidnapped kids. When he gets to the part about the severed arm she stares at him, wide-eyed, but he doesn't notice. He just goes on about Boyd Crowder being arrested for killing someone named Devil, and Arlo taking the blame for killing the trooper _and _the guy Boyd was supposed to have killed.

"So Boyd got his release." He shrugs. "I asked him how it felt, letting a feeble old man take the fall for him, but it didn't seem to bother him none. Art thought I'd be upset, so he offered me a drink which I didn't need but I took anyway."

"And then you came here lookin' for another drink you didn't need."

"You sure your sister's got nothing stronger than water? Not even light beer?"

"I offered you milk or apple juice." He looks up at her again with that half-grin and she has to steel herself not to go to him, curl herself against him, and let the past few weeks just be a bad dream. Instead... "Raylan, why are you here?" She asks again.

"I toldja when I came in. Just wonderin' how all this is gonna work out. You just gonna stay here with your sister until the baby's born?"

"I am."

"Thought I might pat the belly...see the latest sonogram."

She cocks her head. "Tell me a story about a man getting his arm chopped off?"

"You know what they're sayin' at the office?"

His eyes twinkle and there's a punchline coming, she knows it. She raises an eyebrow and waits.

"I 'disarmed' him."

"Pretty good." She nods. They're at an impasse. Again. The exhaustion she feels has nothing to do with being woken up in the middle of the night, but it must show on her face because he eases to his feet.

"I'd better get goin', let you get back to sleep."

He rests a hand on her belly, just for a moment, and something he said earlier pops into her head. "Only thing I don't understand...why did Art think you'd be upset?"

"I guess it was why Arlo shot Bergan."

"Which was?"

"He didn't know it was a state trooper...just saw a man in a hat pointing a gun at Boyd."

"A man in a hat?"

He slides that sideways smile at her, the sad, regretful one. "Yeah." He slips the hat on his head and disappears down the hall.

A man in a hat? _ A man in a hat. Oh, my God! _ _Arlo thought it was Raylan...his own son..._She stands frozen for a long moment. "Raylan!" She calls. The door clicks shut as she moves down the hall and she almost breaks into a run. He's at the car when she throws the door open.

"Raylan," she says, again.

He hangs his head. "Don't, Winona."

She knows if she pushes too hard he'll break and if he breaks, the fragile wall between them will collapse. She needs that wall, so she doesn't tell him how sorry she is or move any closer. She just wraps her arms around herself against the chill night air and looks at him.

"Go on back inside."

"I see the doctor again on Thursday for another sonogram if you want to come."

His head is still down and she can hardly hear his answer. "That'd be good, yeah."

"I'll call you with the time."

"Okay, then." He opens the door. "G'night."

She leans against the porch rail, one hand rubbing small circles over the swell that is their child, and watches as he backs out of the drive. She's still standing there when his taillights disappear down the road.


	2. Daddy Issues

_A/N This was originally intended to be a one-shot. After the nice reviews and some gentle prodding by Rachel Wilder and MSBrooklyn, it turns out there may be more to tell. Since I doubt we'll ever see anything remotely like this on the show I decided to give a glimpse into what the next six months or so may be like for my favorite non-couple. Once again, sadly, I don't own Justified or either of these characters...if I did...well...you know. ;-)_

He's late. She crosses and uncrosses her legs and glances at her watch. The doctor is running late, too, as usual, so it isn't a problem, but Raylan promised he'd be here and she doesn't know whether to be disappointed, angry, or just unsurprised. Sighing, she tosses the magazine she was thumbing through back on the table and pulls out her phone. She types: Where are you? and hits send just as the door opens and he walks in.

The hat is missing and he's wearing his good black suit. He's loosened the tie and undone the top two buttons of the white shirt. His hair is wind-blown, and the dark circles under his eyes speak to a lack of sleep. Still he's undeniably handsome, and the little flutter her heart gives when she sees him reminds her that no matter what she tells him and herself, things will never really be over between them. She cocks her head at the unexpected wardrobe choice and then it hits her. He's been at the funeral for the trooper; the one Arlo shot. He sinks into the chair beside her. "Sorry I'm late."

She lays a hand on his arm. "Why didn't you tell me the funeral was today?"

"I wanted to be here." He shrugs.

"I could've changed the appointment."

He stares at her as if the idea never occurred to him. "You'da done that?"

"I asked you to come," she says. "I wanted you here, so yes, if you'd told me, I could've made it another day." She smiles. "It's not like my schedule is that full." She takes her hand off his arm and fiddles with the straps of her purse. "Are you okay?"

He looks away, out the window at the fading afternoon sunshine. Before he can answer, the nurse calls her name. "Winona Givens?"

Raylan's head whips around, one eyebrow raised in question.

She feels her face flush. "I should've asked you...it's just with Gary being...dead...and..." She drops her head. "...it'll be the baby's name. After what he did...I didn't want to be a Hawkins anymore. But if you don't want me using it I understand. I can go back to my maiden name."

"It's fine."

In the exam room the nurse takes her pulse and blood pressure, asks a few questions about how she's feeling, then leaves to let her undress. She feels awkward and embarrassed. Raylan smiles and dips his head in that way he has. "Go ahead, I won't look. Promise." He holds up two fingers, like a Boy Scout pledge, and she laughs. She takes off her blouse and skirt, laying them over the chair, and slips into the gown, leaving it open in the front. She hops on the table, swinging her feet. Raylan sits in the chair next to her and stretches those long legs out in front of him.

"Long day?"

"The longest." He sighs.

She knows that on some level he feels responsible for Tom Bergan's death. She wants to tell him he's not. She wants to tell him that's ridiculous. She wants to tell him that what Arlo did had nothing to do with him, but she knows he wouldn't believe her, and anyway, after what he's told her, she's not even sure it's true. "I'm glad you're here." It must be the right thing to say, because she gets a shadow of a smile in answer.

"Me, too."

* * *

His mind drifts as they wait for the doctor. They never were real good at small talk, but right now he wishes to God Winona would prattle on about _something_...anything to distract him from the pictures in his head. Tom Bergan's widow, face tight with grief, clutching the folded flag to her chest. An older couple he assumes were the trooper's parents, arms around each other, the woman sobbing quietly. The blank confused look on the faces of the two kids as they stared at their father's coffin.

Raylan stood next to Art and Rachel, felt two pairs of eyes on him as the graveside service played out. When he flinched at the rifle salute, Rachel looked up at him, concern etched on her face. But it was Art who came back for him when he stayed too long, staring at the hole in the ground that held his friend and fellow officer. It was Art who led him back to the car and reminded him of this appointment. He'd been grateful for the excuse not to go back to the Bergan house with the rest of them.

He's immensely relieved when the doctor finally interrupts his thoughts, coming in pushing the sonogram cart and apologizing for their wait. Warm and effiecient, she greets Winona, and shoots him a smile. "Well, let's see how this baby is doing."

Winona's nervous. He can tell. He's not sure if it's the procedure, which seems about the same as last time to him, or this uneasy truce between them. He watches her face as the doctor moves the wand across the round swell of her belly.

"Do you want to know the sex?" The doctor asks.

Winona slides her eyes to his. "It's up to you."

He's surprised enough to stare at her for a minute. They haven't talked about this. He throws the question back at her. "Do you want to know?"

When Winona doesn't immediately answer, the doctor jumps in. "Most people these days like to find out," she says. "But, some still want it to be a surprise."

"I've never been much for surprises," Raylan says.

Winona laughs. "I guess you'd better tell us then." In another unexpected move, she reaches for his hand, linking her fingers though his.

The doctor smiles and points to the screen. "Well, this baby is a boy and he looks just about perfect."

He feels Winona's eyes on him and squeezes her hand. He can't look at her right now. One look at his face and she'll know he's scared shitless. It's a boy. He's going to have a son. How in the hell is he going to do this? He'd convinced himself if it was a girl, he could handle a girl. He got along well enough with Loretta...and Art raised two girls, so he'd be handing out advice whether Raylan asked for it or not. But a boy? Shit.

The doctor pushes a button and the printer on the other side of the room comes to life.

Winona squints at the screen. "Could you print two pictures?"

"Sure, no problem." The doctor smiles. "Sending one to the grandparents?"

"Um, yes," she says. She shoots Raylan a look, and he manages to keep his face blank.

The doctor hands the pictures to Winona. "I want to watch your blood pressure. It's a little elevated. Come in next week to have it checked, okay? The nurse can do it. You don't need an appointment."

"Should I be worried?"

"Not at this point. Besides," the doctor puts a hand on her shoulder and smiles. "...worrying can elevate your blood pressure. Let's just check it in a week and see."

* * *

In the parking lot they both hesitate, standing by her car. She shifts from one foot to the other and pulls the sweater tighter around her, hugging her arms to her chest. "So, it's a boy." She says, soft. "Are you happy?"

He keeps his head down, one hand on his hip. "The doc says he's doin' good, so that's the important thing."

"We could talk about names now. I mean...not now...today but...sometime...if you want."

A half-grin slides across his mouth. "Does this mean you've decided against Jiffy Pop?"

She smiles remembering their conversation. "Seeing him, I just don't think it fits."

He tugs the tie off and stuffs it in his pocket. "Maybe...next week when you come to check in with the doc...we could have lunch." He looks up, his eyes meeting hers.

There's something broken, and yet so hopeful in his words that her eyes fill and she looks away, hoping he didn't see but knowing he sees everything. She clears her throat. "That sounds good. Let's do that."

He steps closer and for a moment she wonders if he's going to hug her, but he just lays one broad hand on the belly. "Thanks," he says. "Give me a call."

"I will."

He hesitates, his hand still resting on their child, and when he speaks, his voice is so low and quiet she almost misses the words. "What kind of father can I possibly be?" He says. "All things considered."

Winona covers his hand with her own. "All things considered, I think you'll do just fine."

"I hope you're right."

"I am. I know it." He meets her eyes again, and this time she manages to hold his gaze.


	3. Boys and Girls

He steps off the elevator with the unavoidable flashback to that night, Arlo in tow and the stares of the entire Marshal's office on him as he walked his handcuffed father into the conference room. This morning his head aches and he's tired to the bone, but he's here. Work, even the boring paperwork Art's been throwing at him since Arlo's arrest, is preferable to sitting around his empty apartment brooding. He's barely in the door when Art spies him.

"Raylan, in my office," his boss says.

Tossing the hat on his desk with a sigh, Raylan follows him, ignoring the sympathetic glance he gets from Rachel. Tim keeps his head down, either absorbed in the file he's reading or determined to give him some space. Whichever it is, Raylan appreciates it.

"Shut the door."

"I'm fine, Art." He stands in front of the desk. "Really, I..."

"I'm not so sure I believe that, but I didn't call you in here to inquire about your state of well-being." He slides an envelope across the desk. "Ballistics are back. One of the guns we found at Arlo's matches the bullet that killed Tom Bergen."

The guilt washes over him again, but he keeps his voice steady. "No surprise there." Raylan flips open the file and glances through it. He looks up to find Art studying him. "There somethin' else?"

"None of the guns match the bullet that killed Devil Ellis."

"I'd say that's no surprise either since we know damn well Arlo didn't have anything to do with that. Boyd killed Devil. You know it as well as I do."

Art nods. "Be nice to have some evidence to dispute Arlo's confession."

"Good luck with that," Raylan snorts. "If there was any, Boyd and Ava have taken care of it by now."

"Might help if we could find out who called in that original tip now, wouldn't it?"

It's Raylan's turn to study his boss. "Why are you suddenly so interested in gettin Boyd? You're usually the one tellin' me to back off."

Art leans on the desk and crosses his arms over his chest. "Difference is, this time we had him dead to rights and then hadta watch him walk outta here scot-free. And it wasn't even because you were sleepin' with a witness. Kinda gets in my craw."

Raylan ignores the jab. "I could talk to the locals...see if they have any idea where the call came from."

"Phone records might tell us something," Art agrees. "Go ahead, but check back with me before you do anything else." He points a finger. "Don't go headin' down there."

"I won't." For once, he has no intention of disobeying. Harlan is the last place he wants to be. His hand is on the doorknob when Art speaks again.

"How's Winona?"

He hears the question under the question. "Good. She's good."

"Everything's fine with the baby?"

"Yeah. "It's a boy." He smiles, despite the fear that clenches in his gut at voicing the words.

Art laughs and slaps his shoulder. "A boy, huh? Congratulations."

"Thanks," he says, and means it. Art's expression is one of genuine happiness and maybe a little pride and for a moment, Raylan allows himself to feel some of that too. A little bit of the joy he felt that morning when Winona told him about the baby washes over him and it almost obscures the dread.

Art throws a thumb back at the file cabinet. "I'd offer you a drink, but it's a little early."

"I'll take a raincheck."

"You got it." Art grins. "A boy." He shakes his head. "That's just great. And from what I hear they're cheaper than girls."

Raylan taps the file against the doorframe. "I'll see what I can get on the phone tip."

"Let me know."

* * *

Gayle pours coffee into her cup and pulls out the chair across from Winona. "So, it's a boy? Have you thought more about names?" She takes a sip of her coffee and when Winona doesn't answer goes on. "If Emma had been a boy we were going to name him Nicholas." She purses her lips and taps a finger on the table. "Winona? Where are you?"

"What? Oh, did you say something? Sorry." Winona moves the eggs around on her plate. "I guess I'm not that hungry."

"I asked if you'd thought any more about names since you know it's a boy." Gayle rises and takes the plate, scraping the uneaten eggs into the sink. She sticks a slice of bread in the toaster. "I'll make you toast. You've got to eat something."

"I'll eat later."

"Are you nauseous? I thought that was better."

Winona huffs out a breath, wishing, not for the first time, that she was living somewhere else. Alone. But, without a job there really isn't any place else, and who's going to hire someone who would need immediate maternity leave? Maybe she shouldn't have quit her job. "I'm just not that hungry. I can fix myself something later."

"But you won't." Gayle butters the toast and sets it down in front of her. "Eat."

She takes an unenthusiastic bite. "Raylan and I are going to talk about names soon." She feels Gayle's eyes on her. "It's his baby, too."

"I wish you'd just let it go," Gayle says.

Winona stops with the toast halfway to her mouth. "What are you talking about?"

"You know he's not gonna be the kind of father you want for this child. You want someone who'll be there all the time. He can't even be there for you...how's he gonna be there for a baby?"

Winona feels the tears well up. How does her sister always manage to find her greatest fear and poke it with a stick?

Gayle reaches across the table and covers Winona's hand with her own. "You're a beautiful woman. You'll find somone else. Someone who can be a real father to this baby. Even Raylan'll see that it's better that way."

She pulls her hand away and stares at Gayle. "What are you saying? That Raylan is going to just go away? Drop out of his child's life?" She shakes her head. "He'd never do that. He wants this baby as much as I do. He's going to love him and..."

"And what? Come to all his ball games and school events and be there when he's sick?" Gayle snorts. "Not likely." She sets her coffee cup down too hard, splashing brown liquid on the table. "He's gonna be off playing cowboy, chasing down bad guys, and getting himself shot at."

God. Gayle's words exhaust her. How can she possibly be this tired when she just woke up? She pushes up from the chair. "I didn't sleep very well. I'm going to lie back down for a bit." She tosses the rest of the toast in the garbage. "I promise I'll eat something when I get up." She tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. "He's a good man, Gayle. He wants to be a good father."

"He likes to shoot people, Winona." Gayle shakes her head and dumps her cold coffee in the sink. "Seems like it runs in the family."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that," Winona says flatly. "I know you don't like him. You never have. You've _always _made that perfectly clear." Childishly she wishes her bare feet made a louder sound as she stomps down the hall.

In the bedroom she pulls out the sack of baby things she bought at the mall on her way home from the doctor. Smiling, she fingers the soft cloth printed with horses, boots, and cowboy hats. She hadn't been able to resist. There's a soft rap at the door and she takes a deep breath. "Come in."

Gayle stops in the doorway. "I shouldn't have said that," she says. "I just...worry about you. I can tell you still love him, but he's no good for you...he's not what you need and..."

"Well, I'm no good for him, either. That's why I'm living with you."

Gayle nods. "I know, but every time you leave to go see him I feel like I'm watching an alcoholic walk into a liqour store."

She lays back on the bed, still holding the tiny shirt. "I'm going to see him, Gayle. He's this baby's daddy and we've got to figure out how to make it work. But I'm not going back to him."

Her sister shrugs. "So you say. Seems like I've heard that before."

"Go to work, Gayle." Winona rolls over and buries her face in the pillow.


	4. Under Pressure

_A/N Special thanks to MSBrooklyn for _lending a hand_ with this chapter. Heh._

I.

Raylan taps his fingers on the bar, waiting for Art's response.

"So," his boss says, after a moment. "The call that put the locals onto Crowder came from a cell phone, no longer in use, but it pinged off the tower closest to Noble's Holler?"

"Yeah."

"You think it's Limehouse?"

"Limehouse or one of his men. He knows more about the goings on in Harlan than just about anyone else, includin' Boyd." He takes a swallow of the bourbon. It's the good stuff, smooth as silk, and it burns all the way down. "He talks big about keepin' to himself and mindin' his own business but if you ask me, that's a crock of shit."

Art rubs his chin with one hand. "I suppose you wanna go down there."

"Not really, no." Raylan admits. "But if it means finding somethin' we can hang on Boyd ..."

"Go on down tomorrow. Talk to Limehouse and see what you can get outta him. Take Tim or Rachel."

"Which one?"

"Hell, I don't care. " Art chuckles, lifting his own glass. "Have 'em flip a coin."

-o-o-O-o-o-

_Flip a coin_. Raylan stands by the elevator the next morning, fingering the quarter in his hand. The last time he brought Rachel to Noble's Holler, she made a remark about being an ambassador for Black America. He grimaces and imagines spending time on the road with Tim. That could be fine, if Tim is in one of his quiet moods but if he's in a mood to start playing mind games because he finds it amusing...

Then again, Limehouse's reaction to Tim might almost be worth it.

-o-o-O-o-o-

"Tails. You lose," Rachel said, her perfect white teeth flashing in a grin. "Enjoy your time in Harlan."

"Shit." Tim says, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair. He glares at Raylan. "Why you taking back-up anyway? You _never_ take back-up. It's kinda your signature. Then we have to make like the cavalry and swoop in and rescue you. That's kinda _my_ signature."

"Look," Raylan says, sliding on the hat and fishing his keys from his pocket. "Art told me to take one of ya, so I'm just following orders. You got a problem, take it up with Art."

"What is this? Deputy Marshal Raylan Givens 2.0?" Tim smirks. "You got a reason for havin' someone along or you wouldn't be takin' someone along, orders or no orders." He pushes the elevator button. "Spill. What've you got up your sleeve?"

""Up my sleeve? Nothin'. I just could use an extra hand." He lowers his head so Tim can't see the grin spreading across his face.

Raylan considers telling Tim the truth. He doesn't really want to go to Harlan at all, and certainly not alone, but he's not sure how such a revelation would be received.

In the car, it seems Raylan's gotten lucky. This is one of Tim's contemplative days. He watches in silence as they leave the city and wind into the mountains and Raylan is grateful. Maybe the younger man just hasn't had enough coffee, but he wonders if Tim's sensed that today just isn't the day to give him a lot of shit.

-o-o-O-o-o-

Three guys holding rifles come out of nowhere when they pull onto the bridge separating Nobles Holler from the rest of Harlan County. Evidently, Limehouse has enhanced his security. The youngest of the three is a guy Raylan recalls seeing in the diner on one of his earlier visits. The other two are unknowns.

"Who does this Limehouse think he is?" Tim asks. "Don Corleone?"

"The Great Protector of His People." Raylan rolls his eyes and rolls down the window, slipping the Marshal's star from his belt and flashing it at the young man. "Morning, Bernard. Deputy Marshals Givens and Gutterson. We need to speak to Mr. Limehouse."

The kid spits on the pavement, shifts the tobacco in his cheek, and calls out to the others. "It's the Feds." Something is yelled back and he waves the Lincoln through.

Raylan parks in front of the ramshackle set of buildings and turns off the ignition. "Let me do the talkin'," he says to Tim.

"No problem. I happily defer to the Hillbilly Whisperer."

He shoots Tim a glare. "This guy may look like simple country folk, but take it from me, he ain't." He pushes the door open and they walk into the diner.

"Why Marshal Givens," Limhouse drawls from behind the counter. "Didn't 'spect I'd see you back 'round these parts so soon."

"Neither did I," Raylan says. "It's not a social visit."

"I didn't think it was." He lays his ever-present knife down on the counter and wipes his hands on his apron. "So, what can I do for the Marshal's Service today?"

* * *

II.

The nurse unwraps the blood pressure cuff from her arm and jots something in the file. She smiles at Winona. "Still a little elevated. I'm going to share this with the doctor since she's in. I'll be right back."

Winona leans her head back against the wall. Gayle is driving her nuts, bringing her food, throwing out name suggestions, and generally hovering until Winona wants to run screaming out of the house. She appreciates her sister taking her in, but she hates feeling obligated and dependent. She has some money from savings and, ironically, the payout from Gary's life insurance, since he'd never changed the beneficiary. Still, a lot of that is being eaten up by her health insurance and buying maternity clothes and things for the baby.

It's a long while before the nurse comes back, and she almost dozes off. "Dr. Delano wants a blood test to check a few things, if you roll up your sleeve I'll take the sample then she'd like to see you in her office."

Her heart beats faster and she's sure her blood pressure raises another degree. "Is everything okay?"

"I'm sure it is, Sweetie," the nurse says. "Let's just see what we can find out, okay?"

Winona rolls up her sleeve and turns her head, wincing at the prick of the needle.

The doctor walks in, Winona's chart in hand. "So, your blood pressure is a little higher than I like, but everything else looks good. Your weight is stable, the baby's heartbeat is strong. We'll see what the blood tests say." She takes the chair beside Winona rather than sitting at the desk across from her. "Aside from the pregnancy, are you under any new stresses?"

Her quiet tone of concern and sympathy pushes Winona over the edge. "Um..well.." She hesitates. She's never been one to share personal things. Her mama called it "airing dirty laundry" and had driven the point home to both her daughters that it simply wasn't done. Now she feels the tears start and with a mixture of shame and relief she tells the doctor everything; the break with Raylan, quitting her job, living with Gayle. She hates that it sounds like such a godawful soap opera plot, even to her ears.

"Sounds like you've got your hands full," Dr. Delano says. "Do you have anyone you can talk to?"

Winona shakes her head. "Not really."

"Your sister?"

"Maybe, if I wasn't living there," she says ruefully. "We're getting on each other's nerves."

The doctor nods. "Families can be like that."

Winona takes a tissue from the box on the desk and wipes her eyes. "It doesn't help that she hates Raylan."

The doctor steeples her hands and looks at Winona. "Why? He seems supportive."

"He is. We just...there's a lot of history there."

Dr. Delano goes around the desk and opens a drawer. Pulling out a card, she hands it to Winona. "It might help to talk things out with someone," she says. "This guy is good." She cocks her head, considering her words. "He does couples counseling, too, if that's something you're interested in. Even if you aren't together, it looks like he wants to be an active parent; so it might be worth thinking about. The stresses aren't going to go away when this baby is born."

Winona takes the card and glances at it before sliding it into the outside pocket of her purse. "Thank you," she says. She can't imagine Raylan agreeing to anything like the doctor suggests, and it's one thing they might actually agree on...the thought of telling a complete stranger about all of it doesn't really appeal to her, either.

"I want you to take it easy for a few days until we get these results back. I'm not putting you on bed rest, but nothing strenuous, okay?" Dr. Delano raises an eyebrow. "And no worrying. Worst case scenario we keep you on modified bed-rest until the BP comes down. This baby is going to be just fine."

Winona nods, her hand automatically going to her stomach, protective. Silently she promises her son she'll do whatever it takes to keep him safe, before he's born and after.


	5. Lunch and Dinner

Raylan steps up and leans on the scratched formica counter knowing that Tim will stay behind, always the alert shooter, positioned so that he has a clear view of both the interior of the diner and anyone who might come in. Limehouse's crew won't get the drop on them today. He readies his speech, prepared to tell Limehouse that he knows the information on Boyd's involvement in Devil's demise came from Noble's Holler, but before he can start in, Tim speaks up.

"The Marshal Service just wants to be certain you've severed your ties with organized crime, Mr. Limehouse. Not just out of our interests, but for your own protection. These are dangerous people."

Limehouse looks from Raylan to Tim and back again. "Severed my ties, huh? Where's your token African American woman what makes the Marshal Service look all politically correct? Deputy Brooks, wasn't it? I think I liked her better than this wet-behind the ears white boy you brought along today."

An earnest look appears on Tim's face and Raylan takes a deep breath and steels himself not to laugh at the bullshit the younger man is about to spew. "I assure you I was not trying to be funny, Mr. Limehouse. Raylan here tells me you're a man to be reckoned with and I respect his opinion, at least when it comes to Harlan County." He pulls a notepad out of his pocket. "Has anyone from Detroit contacted you?"

"Naw." Limehouse dips into a deep pan simmering on the stove and pulls out a hank of sauce-laden meat, slapping it onto a plate. "We can protect ourselves just fine. And that ain't why you're here." His brown eyes fixed back on Raylan. "I heard 'bout your daddy taken the fall for Devil on top of that poor Trooper. Kinda eats at ya, I'd bet. I'd bet you'd love to know who fingered Boyd in the first place. I about right?"

Shit. Raylan thinks. If he believed in mind-reading he'd bet his next paycheck Limehouse had 'the gift ' as his mama used to call it. He slides his hand along the brim of the hat and pulls it lower. "That information would be welcome, yes."

"It was Errol made that call."

Raylan nods. "At your behest."

Limehouse squints, and his teeth flash in a grin. He points at Raylan with the meat fork in his hand. "Now what would make you think such a thing?"

"Raylan tells me nothing much happens here in Noble's Holler without your knowledge and consent, so I'd say it's a pretty good guess," Tim says. "And I'd figure that a man like you, well, you probably aren't too fond of a man like Boyd Crowder."

"Heh," Limehouse laughs. "You're smarter than you look." He layers the meat onto two rolls adds a pile of sweet potato fries and coleslaw and slides the plates onto the counter. "Both you boys look hungry. Marshal Givens, you been here what...five, six times now and never tried my barbeque. I'm about to get offended." He sets a squeeze jar of sauce beside the plates and looks at them. "Eat up and who knows? I might feel like chattin' when you're done."

He disappears into the back, returning with three brown bottles covered with frost. Tim's already got his mouth around the sandwich, so Raylan speaks for them both. "We're on duty, so..."

"Homemade root beer," Limehouse says, popping the caps on an old-fashioned opener scewed into the counter. "Best in Kentucky, if'n you ask anyone around here. Though, as I remember, your Aunt Helen made some almost as good."

Raylan lifts the bottle and takes a tentitive sip. "Umm." He takes a longer swallow. "Tastes like summer."

"That it does," Limehouse agrees. "That it does." He looks at Tim, whose sandwich is disappearing rapidly. "That's good barbeque, ain't it?"

"Yessir," Tim mumbles, mouth full.

Raylan eats his sandwich a bit more slowly, but just as enthusiastically. "We should take some of this back for Art." Tim says, swallowing the last bite and wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"One to go?" Limehouse pulls out another bun and raises an eyebrow at Raylan.

"Better make it two, in case he gets hungry in the car," Raylan says. He drains the last of the root beer from the still ice cold bottle. "But we're not leavin' without that chat."

"Well now," Limehouse leans in, his round face inches from Raylan's. "I wouldn't be the kind of person folks confide in if I just let those confidences slip out. But, I reckon if you happened to mention a name'a someone who coulda been there when it all went down, I might not be able to hide my tell."

Tim turns to stare at him and Raylan's mind starts racing. Someone who coulda been there when it all went down. Who would've been there when Boyd killed Devil? Ava, maybe, but she'd never betray Boyd. Arlo? Could he be making up for letting information slip by taking the fall? The only other person who'da been there..."_Shit_. It's Johnny," Raylan says. "Johnny Crowder."

Limehouse sets two foil-wrapped packages on the counter, then he clinks his root beer bottle against Raylan's empty one, lifts it to his lips and finishes it off.

-o-o-O-o-o-

"So what did the doctor say? How's your blood pressure?"

Winona twirls more pasta onto her fork and pauses halfway to her mouth. "Still a little high. She's doing some blood work and she wants me to take it easy for a few days." She watches his expression grow pensive. "I'm fine, Raylan. The baby is fine. She said his heartbeat is strong."

He takes another bite of chicken and points at her. "You do what she said. Rest, okay?"

"I will." She takes a small piece of bread from the basket and runs it through the sauce on her plate. "Have you thought about names at all?"

There's a shrug, and then a grin. "You sure you don't like Felix?" He swallows the last of his beer and motions to the waiter for another.

She smiles back. "I was thinking Lucas. Luke. Do you like that?"

He nods. "I like that fine. But knowing you, you'll change your mind half a dozen times between now and when he's born."

"Maybe." She acknowledges.

He sets the bottle on the table and runs a finger around the rim, making it sing. "I do have one thing I been thinkin'."

"What's that?" She's enjoying this. They're getting along, not squabbling, not nervous...maybe they can be like this...maybe this can work. She feels some of the stress of the day evaporating.

"I'd like his middle name to be Arthur."

"Oh," she says, quiet. "I like that." It seems fitting, and she can't help but think that Art has been a larger, more constant presence in their lives than either of their families. They met him at Glynco when they were young and crazy in love and he's seen all sides of both of them, good and bad. "I think that's perfect. Lucas Arthur Givens. It sounds good, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I do." The waiter comes with Raylan's beer and refills Winona's water glass.

"Do you want dessert?"

Raylan raises an eyebrow. "There's chocolate cake. Wanna split it?"

She laughs. "Well, I don't have to worry about fitting into my clothes. I don't anyway. Sure." She knows he'll end up eating most of it.

He looks up at the waiter. "Can we get a scoop of vanilla ice cream on that?"

After dessert, they walk to her car in comfortable silence. This time he does hug her goodbye, and it's nice; warm and affectionate. "Go home and get some sleep," he says. "Don't let Gayle get on your nerves."

She laughs. "I'll try." Sliding behind the wheel she waves and turns the key in the ignition. There's a horrible grinding sound and nothing happens. She tries again, saying a silent prayer under her breath. Nothing. Shit. There's a rap on the window and she lowers it. At least that works.

"Let me try," Raylan says.

She gets out and stands with her arms crossed over her chest watching while he gets the exact same result. He gets out and slams the door. "You have worse luck with cars than anyone I know. When was the last time you had the oil changed or the car checked out?"

She feels her face flush. "Probably when you took it in."

"Winona, that was like...five months ago." He huffs in frustration.

"It's been running fine." She snaps, defensive. The mood of the evening has shifted, and not for the better.

He runs a hand through his hair and softens his tone. "I'll call Joe at the motor pool and have him come and tow it to the shop. I can drive you back to Louisville."

She knows he's tired. He's been to Harlan and back, it's already almost eight and Louisville and back is another three hours. "No, it's late. Just take me to the Hilton or Marriott. I'll stay here tonight and look into getting a car in the morning. Or Gayle can come get me."

"You really wanna stay at a hotel?"

"You got a better idea?"

He shrugs. "I got a bed and a couch. You can have the bed."

"Raylan, I..." she looks at his expression and stops. "You think that's a good idea?"

"Better than a hotel."

She's too exhausted to argue. Her feet hurt, she ate too much, and now she has to pee. "Alright," she sighs. "Take me home."


	6. Slumber Party

Raylan shoots a sideways glance at Winona as he pulls into the parking lot. Luckily, UK is on break and there's no live music or loud crowd tonight. Still, he imagines her reaction to his new accommodations is going to be less than enthusiastic. "Here we are."

Her eyes sweep the neon-lit entrance and shift upward to the grime-streaked narrow windows set into the wall. "I think I preferred the motel," she says, but at least she's half-smiling.

He pushes open the door and guides Winona in, one hand on her elbow. Tuesday is Randy's night, so he's surprised when Lindsay appears from behind the bar. "Evening, Marshal," she says. Her smile is as open and warm as always, but she looks Winona up and down and there's the glint of a question in her eyes.

"Lindsay." He drops his head and takes a breath to collect himself. "Lindsay, this is Winona, Winona, Lindsay."

"Nice to meet you." They both say it at the same time, polite and cool.

"It's this way," he says, turning toward the stairs. "'Night, Lindsay."

"Goodnight." She shuts the door to the bar with a sharp click.

He moves so Winona can start up ahead of him. "It's the first door on the right, just at the top of the stairs."

"How long have you been sleeping with her?"

He stops with his foot on the step, staring up at her back. How the hell does she _do_ that? "Winona..."

Her head twists around, and the expression on her face is amusement, not anger. "Raylan, I left you. I didn't expect you'd become a monk."

"It's nothin' seri..."

"You don't owe me an explanation."

"You aren't mad?"

She laughs. "That'd be pretty silly, now, wouldn't it?"

He considers pointing out that he thinks this whole thing is pretty silly, but manages to bite back the words. At the top of the stairs he reaches past her, sliding the key into the lock and opening the door.

Winona peers in cautiously. "Wow. Two whole rooms."

"_And_ a kitchen _and _a bathroom," Raylan says. It comes out more petulant than it sounded in his head.

"More like a kitchenette." Winona smirks at him. "But I'm more interested in the bathroom at the moment."

"Sorry it doesn't have a separate commode area." He flips on the light switch and shoots her an impish grin.

"That's alright. I'm not planning on moving in." She's quick with the retort, but her smile fades as she slips past him, shutting the door. He glances around the barren apartment. It's not much better than the motel, and it certainly isn't cleaned as often or very well. He hasn't been here enough to really notice but seeing it through her eyes he realizes that a coat of paint is needed, not to mention a chair, maybe some pillows for the couch. He sighs. It seems like a lot of effort, and for what?

"I like your photo gallery." She's back to smiling when she emerges from the bathroom a few moments later.

He's sitting on the bed, taking his boots off. Rolling the socks into a ball, he tosses them into the white plastic laundry basket in the corner. "Yeah, well...the place needed a little somethin'."

"And I bet ultra-sound photos on the bathroom mirror really make an impression on your guests." She cocks her head, studying him. He must look chagrined, because she adds "I think it's sweet." Stifling a yawn she eases down on the bed beside him. "I'm kinda glad I'm not driving back to Gayle's. I'm exhausted."

"You tell the doctor about that?"

She nods. "It's normal. She said I should get my energy back here in a couple of weeks." She kicks her shoes off and lays back, stretching out and resting her hands on her stomach. "It's strange to think of him swimming around in there."

"Doin' somersaults and back flips?" He grins down at her. She moves one hand and he places his own flat over the small swell. He's curious. "Can you feel 'im?"

"Sometimes it feels all fluttery, like there's a hummingbird in there." She yawns again and her eyes blink closed.

"You gonna sleep in your clothes?"

She doesn't open her eyes. "I don't have anything else. I'll just have to be rumpled tomorrow."

"Here," He reaches into the closet and pulls a shirt off the hanger. "This work?" He tosses it to her.

"Thanks." She pushes up from the bed and disappears into the bathroom. When she comes back out it's like stepping back in time to the motel, when she walked around in nothing but his shirt every night. And he can't help noticing the way her breasts fill out the shirt now, her long, still slim legs sticking out from underneath.

She crawls into the bed and pulls up the covers.

He leans in the doorway. "The Reds are playin'. Will it bother you if I watch some of the game?"

She shakes her head. "Go ahead. I don't think a train wreck could keep me awake."

"Alright then, g'night."

"Good night, Raylan," she says. "And thank you. For dinner...and...everything."

"No problem. Get some sleep."

-o-o-o-o-

When she first opens her eyes, she's disoriented for a moment. Then it all comes back. She's in Raylan's apartment, above the bar. The disembodied light from the television dances across the wall, casting odd shadows. She slips out of bed and walks carefully out through the tiny living room. He's sprawled on the couch, one leg dangling. The blanket has slipped off, pooling on the floor, and she picks it up, throwing it over him. He doesn't stir. Leaving the tv on for the light, she glances around the kitchenette and finds a glass. She fills it with water from the tap and sips, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath.

Silently she crosses back to the bathroom. If she goes now, maybe she won't wake up again later. When she slips back into bed his voice comes soft. "You okay?"

"I'm fine, go on back to sleep." The curtains billow at the window and a car passes the bar, its red taillights dancing in the glass. A return to sleep evades her, and she sighs, rolling over to the cool side of the bed.

"Can't sleep?"

"No. You either?"

She hears him moving and the light from the television goes off. "Nope."

"What time is it?"

"About four." He's standing by the bed, so close she can feel the heat rolling off his skin. It would be so easy to reach out and touch him, but she doesn't.

The bed sinks with his weight as he sits. He doesn't say anything. One hand lowers and strokes her hair, slowly, running his fingers through from the crown to her shoulders. "Raylan..."

"Shhh. Go back to sleep." He keeps stroking, and it feels so comforting that she gives in. She rolls on her side, and he stretches out beside her. Tugging at his hand, she wraps his arm around her and settles against him. The last thing she feels is his fingers, warm on the soft skin of her stomach, as she drifts into sleep.

-o-o-O-o-o-

She's awake, he can tell from her breathing. Neither of them has moved. She's still pressed close to him, his arm slung across her, his hand under the shirt resting on the small mound of baby. Slim fingers cover his. He's not sure what this means, or if it means anything at all.

Pale light is starting to peek through the edges of the blinds, but he doesn't ease up to glance at the clock. "You awake?" Her voice is low and raspy with sleep.

"Yeah."

She sighs, but doesn't move away or turn around to face him. He wonders if she's as unwilling to break this unexpected connection as he is. He doesn't care if he's late for work. He'd lay here all day if he thought they could get away with it. Moving his hand, he links his fingers through hers, rubbing his thumb over her palm in slow circles. "I could call in sick," he whispers.

He feels her smile. "And do what? Stay in bed like this all day?"

"Would that be so bad?"

She turns her head. "I wish..."

"It doesn't have to be just a wish," he says, sounding more exasperated than he means to.

Pushing up to a sitting positon she gazes down at him. "This doesn't..._we _don't work, Raylan. I know you love me...I love you, too...but...we can't..."

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. "But...but what Winona? Maybe we _can _work it out...I told you I'd talk to Art about Glynco again."

"We've been over this." Her voice takes on the patient tone he imagines she'll use with their child one day. "You had _weeks_, almost a month, after you were shot to talk to Art about Glynco and you didn't. It's okay...I get it...you don't really want to go. You'd be doing it for me and you'd end up resenting me for it. I don't want that. But you couldn't even take _one _afternoon off to look at houses?"

"I'm gonna take a shower." He swings his legs over the side of the bed, but she grabs his shoulder.

"Wait." She wraps her arms around him from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder. "This was good. Last night...dinner...being here...let's not ruin it. Let's just let it be and..."

"And what...live in some kind of limbo?"

She stiffens, but doesn't release him. "You're not in limbo. You're free to do what you want with whoever you want. I didn't get mad about..."

"And you're really okay with that?" He snorts. "I'm not sure how to take that."

In a familiar motion, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "You don't love her."

"That makes it okay?"

She shrugs. "I guess maybe it does."

"But it would bother you if I did."

She flushes. "Well, sure...I mean..."

"I'm taking a shower." He feels her eyes on his back as he peels off his t-shirt and drops it on the floor on his way into the bathroom.

"Raylan..."

"Just let it go, Winona."


	7. Wheels Go 'Round

"Johnny Crowder, huh?" Art tips the chair back and links his fingers behind his head and keeps his eyes on Raylan. "You really think he'd double cross Boyd?"

Raylan slides a hand across his mouth. "Well, Johnny double-crossed Bo to Boyd...told him about that shipment from Miami."

"And got himself shot by Bo for his trouble," Art says. "He's in a wheelchair now, isn''t he?"

"Yeah. From what I know, he can walk a bit, but not much. He mostly uses the chair."

"S'pose he might blame Boyd for bein' in that chair?"

"Might." Raylan nods.

Art sets the chair down and rests his elbows on the desk. "What other motivation would he have for settin' Boyd up like that? Would he want control of things in Harlan?"

"I doubt it. Johnny's not like Devil. He's never been all that ambitious. Or that stupid. But I know somethin' else Boyd has that he might want."

Art seems puzzled for a moment, then raises an eyebrow. "Ava?" He snorts. "Is there anybody down in Harlan doesn't have a thing for that woman?"

"It's a small town and she's a pretty lady."

"See if you can get him in here. Tell him it's a follow-up on Tom Bergen's shooting."

"Alright."

They stand and Art comes around to the front of the desk. He picks up an apple and takes a bite, talking around it. "You goin' to the arraignment tomorrow?"

His boss's tone is light, but his eyes are concerned. "I thought I would," Raylan says. He's not sure why it seems important to go, and decides it's more about respect for Tom Bergan than concern for Arlo. Arlo's defense attorney has called him three times and he's yet to return the call.

"I'm gonna go, too. We can ride down together." It doesn't sound like a suggestion. Art glances down at a file on his desk and Raylan's been dissmissed.

"I'll get on Johnny and let you know when he's comin' in."

Raylan settles in his chair about to pick up the phone and make that call down to Harlan when Tim appears, laying a pink message slip on the desk and smirking at him. "Joe from the motor pool called and left a message for you. Said the Toyota has a bad starter. He'd have to order the part, wants you to call him." He raises an eyebrow at Raylan. "When'd you start drivin' a Toyota? Thought you were a 'Made in America' guy."

"Most Toyota's are made in America, right over in Georgetown, as a matter of fact," Raylan says. "It's Winona's. It wouldn't start the other night so I had Joe come and get it. I'd better go down there and talk to him." He grabs the hat and slips into his jacket, ignoring Tim's inquisitive gaze as he heads for the elevators.

His phone buzzes as he heads for the motor pool garage and he answers without looking at the number, expecting it's Winona. "Hello."

"Marshal Givens?" A female voice. Not Winona. "This is Katherine Phillips, I'm your father's attorney." She continues talking too quickly for him to get a word in. "Glad I caught you. I've been trying to reach you. We need to set up a time to talk."

Sighing, he stops walking and speaks low into the phone so no one can overhear. "No, we don't Miss..."

"Phillips," she says. "And it's obvious the relationship between you and your father is strained but surely you can see he isn't in control..."

"I don't care." Raylan's voice is sharp, menacing. "A good man is dead. Arlo did what he did and he should pay for it. His mind was clear enough to know what he was doin' and why. He told you so himself."

"Marshal Givens, I think I'd still like to.."

"We're done here." He pushes the 'End Call' button and leans against the wall.

-o-o-O-o-o-

Raylan holds the door open and lets Johnny wheel himself into the conference room ahead of him. He notices the muscles in Johnny's arms and shoulders are more developed, and he's manuvering the chair with more ease, still, it can't be easy. Raylan feels a wave of unexpected sympathy for his old teammate.

Pulling out a chair for himself, he sits and opens the folder, taking out several pictures of the layout of the bar parking lot the day of Tom Bergen's shooting. He spreads them on the table in full view. Since Tom Bergen's death is the pretext of getting Johnny in here, he figures he'd better keep up the charade for a bit before segueing over to Devil.

"What's this all about now, Raylan? I told them officers what I saw the night it happened."

"You want some coffee?"

Johnny shakes his head. "No, I want to get this shit over with and get on back down to Harlan."

Raylan takes his time, flipping through the pages, acting as if he's familiarizing himself with Johnny's original statement, even though he has it practically memorized. After a few minutes and several sighs of impatience from Johnny he looks up. "Says here you fingered Quarles as the shooter."

"I thought he was. I never seen Arlo. I'd swear to that." Johnny shakes his head. "He needs someone to testify..."

"I don't care about that. I'm sure his lawyer will be callin' you, if she hasn't already." Raylan watches the other man's face, but it gives nothing away. He asks a few more questions taking Johnny back over the events leading up to the explosion and has him point out on the photographs where he, Boyd, Quarles, and Bergen were when shots were fired. "Alright then," Raylan says, closing the folder.

"That's it? Am I done here?" Johnny says, starting to back the chair up. "I'm sure I'll be seein' ya, Raylan."

"One more thing," Raylan says. "We got some ballistics back and it's funny...none of the guns we pulled from Arlo's matches the bullet that killed Devil."

Johnny shrugs. "He probably ditched it."

"Could be." Raylan nods. "But then, there's that phone call fingerin' Boyd." He pulls another paper from the file and runs his finger down the list until he finds what he's looking for. "Came from Nobles Holler. According to Elliston Limehouse, it was Errol made that call."

Johnny runs his tongue across his bottom lip and blinks. "Errol. He the guy who came around with Dickie? Didn't he get himself shot?"

"That he did."

"Too bad. Guess you'll never know where he got his information." Johnny chuckles. "Or misinformation."

"See, that's the thing," Raylan leans forward on the conference table. "I don't think it was misinformation. Mind you, I've got no sympathy for Arlo. Arlo's goin' to prison and that's what he deserves for murdering a law enforcement officer. But he didn't kill Devil Ellis. You know that as well as I do."

"How would I know who killed Devil?"

"Come on now, Johnny," Raylan says. "You and Devil were both part of Boyd's crew. All of ya practically livin' together in Arlo's house." He pulls another sheet of paper from the file. "And Devil's cell phone records show quite a few calls to your cell phone. Right up until the day they stop. And we all know why he stopped callin'." He slides the sheet close enough that Johnny can see the highlighted numbers. "What were you two talkin' about? Devil thinkin' he wasn't gettin' enough? He want to move in on Boyd...or... hell, maybe even take Boyd out?" Raylan shakes his head. "He always did have...what is it they say...'delusions of grandeur'?"

Johnny's fingers twitch nervously on the handles of the chair. "I don't know anything. And if I did..."

"You wouldn't tell me." Raylan finishes.

"Whatcha gonna do? You gonna throw me outta this chair again like you done down in Harlan. I should sue your ass for police brutality."

"Well, now, you'd need a reputable witness for that. Or some visible injuries." Raylan lowers his voice. "I think I know what happened here, Johnny."

"Alright then, Columbo...go ahead...you're so smart. Tell me what happened."

"Columbo wore a raincoat. McCloud was the Marshal with the hat, but I'll let that slide."

"He rode a horse, too, didn't he? That's what you need, Raylan, a big white horse."

He laughs. "Here's what I think. I think Devil got it in his fool head that he could run things better than Boyd. Hell, maybe he had someone backin' him up...there's a few calls on his cell we can't trace yet, but Tim out there is workin' on it. Anyway...Devil's got this idea and he comes to you."

"Me?" Johnny laughs. "He'd have to be pretty damn stupid to do that, Raylan. You know for most of us grew up down in Harlan, present company excluded, blood is thicker than just about anythin'."

"Even when blood put you in a chair? Took away your legs and God knows what else?" Raylan flips through the file again, pulling out another sheet of paper. "Here I thought Boyd got the bar back for you, seein' as it was your bar and partly his fault you lost it...but I got a copy of the deed right here and you know whose name is on it? Can you read that for me?" He slides the paper across to Johnny.

"I know damn well what that says." He angrily shoves the paper back at Raylan. "It's just a piece of paper. It's _my_ damn bar."

Raylan shakes his head. "No, not legally it ain't. Boyd could put you out at anytime and you'd have what? Nothin'. You blew your house up for him...what'd you get for that, Johnny?"

Johnny's face reddens and he points a long finger at Raylan. "You wait just a minute. Boyd is my blood kin. He'll do right by me." His chin goes up, defiant. "Besides, I ain't stupid. Double-crossin' Boyd'd be signin' my own death warrant."

"Um hmm," Raylan murmurs. "That's what I'm thinkin' happened to Devil. But I think you already know that. So..." He closes the folder and rests a hand on top of it. "You'd better hope Boyd isn't figurin' things out just like I did."

Johnny's mouth twists into a thin line.

"You're free to go," Raylan says. "But if you think of anythin' you mighta left out of our conversation, you give me a call. We got a history, you and I, and hell, all of it ain't bad. You wanna talk about Boyd and what he's done, I'll do right by you, Johnny, blood or no blood."


	8. Let's Talk Therapy

"What's this?" As Winona watches, he turns the card she gave him over in his hand, squinting to read the small script.

"He's a therapist." She chews on her lip, then automatically wipes lipstick from her teeth with a finger. "Dr. Delano referred him to me."

He stares at her, incredulous. "You're goin' to a shrink?"

She turns her back to the window facing out into the Marshal's office and shoves her hands into the pockets of her sweater. "The doctor thought it might help with the stress. The blood tests all came back normal, so she thinks that's probably what's causing my elevated blood pressure."

"You've got stress?" He chuckles, shaking his head.

"Yes, Raylan, I've got stress." She sighs. She knows he's going to have an argument for whatever she says about the difficulties of not having a job and living with Gayle. He figures she brought this stress on herself, and he thinks he knows just how to alleviate it. As if life with Raylan Givens would ever be stress-free, even at Glynco or, she suspects, if he was selling ice cream.

"Dr. Delano says he's really good and he does couples' counseling, too."

"Too bad we aren't a couple."

"Jesus, Raylan..." She picks her purse up off the conference table and shifts it onto her shoulder. "Do you have a car for me or not? Just give me the keys." She holds out her hand.

He cocks his head and narrows his eyes at her. "What? You want me to go to counseling? Like it isn't bad enough I have to see the department shrink every time there's a shooting?"

"That must keep him busy."

He shakes his head, one hand on his hip. "Thanks, that's nice."

"Keys?"

"Now you're mad?"

"It's just the same old thing, Raylan." She huffs out a breath. Whenever she asks him for something, even when it's perfectly reasonable, she always ends up feeling like a bitch.

"What in the hell does that mean?"

Okay, she thinks, he's asking for it. "You go to the department shrink because you have to, right? If you didn't they'd suspend you or put you on desk duty or something like that."

"Well, yeah."

"So, you'll do it for your_ job_...but not for me...for us."

"There is no us, Winona." He leans back against the table and crosses his arms over his chest, staring at the floor. "You've made that perfectly clear."

"There'll always be an 'us'. We're going to have a child together. Maybe we can at least learn how to get along."

He closes his eyes and rubs his hand across his jaw. "Okay."

She's not sure she heard him right. "Okay? You'll go?"

"I'll go. But..." He gestures at her with his thumb and forefinger pressed together and lowers his voice to a hiss. "I am not talkin' about Arlo or my childhood or Harlan or any of that shit with some stranger."

Or with anyone else, she thinks. "Why would I bring any of that up?"

He shrugs. "Just don't."

"I won't."

There's a knock on the glass and Tim holds up a file and taps his watch. "I gotta go," Raylan says. "We've got a prisoner transfer this afternoon." He fishes a key ring out of his pocket. "It's a dark blue Lexus. It's parked next to the Lincoln. I signed it out so be careful. Joe said your car should be done by day after tomorrow."

"Okay, thank you," she says. She looks down and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "So, do you want me to call and make an appointment for us?"

He sighs. "Make the appointment and let me know. I'll be there."

-o-o-O-o-o-

He's at his usual stool on the end of the bar closest to the door where he can keep an eye on things. There's a local country-blues band playing tonight and they're pretty good. People are dancing and all of the pool tables are busy. Between students returning early from break and three or four tables full of what must be the band's entourage, there's a nice crowd for a weeknight. Tracey was late for her shift and Lindsay has been too busy to do much more than shoot him a glance as she refills his whiskey.

"Hey there," she says finally, stopping in front of him and leaning her elbows on the bar. "I sure hope I don't have to fire her." She hooks a thumb in Tracey's direction. "She's a good worker when she's here, but this is the third time she's been late in the last two weeks."

The hat is low on his head and he doesn't look at her. "About the other night..."

Lindsay's laughter bubbles and when he glances up her eyes are twinkling. She shakes her head. "I knew you were gonna start right out apologizing." She takes his glass, raising an eyebrow. When he nods, she refills it and sets it back down in front of him.

"Well, I figure I owe you..."

"Stop." She holds up a hand. "You don't owe me anything. We had some fun." She shrugs. "I take it that was your baby-mama the other night? She want you back?"

He takes a gulp of the whiskey and sets the glass down too hard. "I don't know _what_ she wants."

Lindsay tilts her head, blonde hair brushing her shoulder. "Well...she did come home with you. That should be a clue."

He shakes his head. "It's not like it was her idea...or mine. Her car broke down. And nothin' happened. We just ended up havin' the usual argument."

"Which is?" She says. When he doesn't respond she adds, "None of my business."

"My job."

"Uh huh. She doesn't like it."

"That's an understatement." The glass is empty, but when Lindsay nods toward the bottle he remembers that Art is picking him up at six-thirty to head down to Harlan for Arlo's arraignment. He shakes his head. "I got an early mornin'."

"So she loves you," Lindsay observes, "but she hates your job." She sets a glass of water in front of him. "You ever think of doin' somethin' else?"

"I _like_ my job."

"But you love her." Two stools next to him empty and she picks up the glasses and swipes a rag across the bar. "And there's the baby."

"I like my job," he repeats, sipping the water and wishing he'd taken her up on the refill. "I like chasing down fugitives, and I'm good at it."

Lindsay glances up at the bullet hole in the ceiling and smiles. "I'd say sometimes they chase you down."

"Heh, well. I still get 'em." He takes the hat off and runs his hands through his hair. "No matter what happens with Winona, I wanna be a good father to this baby. I had a pretty lousy one myself."

"Mine took off when I was three. Mama raised me and my two brothers on her own. Didn't do a half-bad job with Rich and me. Denny, well...I don't think havin' a daddy woulda made any difference at all."

"Mighta been better for us if Arlo had taken off."

"He still alive, your daddy?"

"Yeah." He doesn't offer more, and she doesn't ask.

"I don't know much about it myself, but I'd think that wanting to be a good parent would be a start."

"I hope you're right." He reaches for his wallet and lays a couple bills on the counter. "I'd better go try and get some sleep."

"This is their last set," Lindsay says. "They usually slow it down some so it shouldn't be too noisy up there."

"G'night, Lindsay."

""Night, Raylan. You take care."


	9. Dazed and Confused

Raylan is surprised to see Rachel riding shotgun when Art pulls up in front of the bar the next morning. He opens the door to get in the back, but she slides out.

"You go ahead and sit up front. With those long legs of yours I'd just be feeling guilty taking up all the space." She slips past him into the back seat.

"Mornin'" he says to Art as he slides in. There's a box of doughnuts on the console and he helps himself to a cream-filled. "You want a doughnut?" He holds the box up, but Rachel shakes her head.

"No, thanks."

"Good morning to you, too," Art says. "Coffee for you, right there. Couple-a packs of sugar and some cream, too." He turns the wheel and steers out into the early morning traffic, blinking against the sunshine.

"Thanks," he says around another bite of doughnut.

Art glances in the rearview mirror. "You got that file for Raylan to take a look at?"

Rachel hands a thin file over the seat back.

Raylan opens the folder and looks over the first page. "Devil's autopsy?"

"Yeah. Take a look. He was shot in the chest. That woulda killed him eventually but it mighta taken awhile. It wouldn't have been pleasant."

"Sucking chest wounds rarely are." He finishes the doughnut and licks his fingers.

"Keep readin'. It looks like someone did him a favor."

Raylan flips through the file. "Hmmm. Shot him right between the eyes," he says. "Mercy shot?"

"Sure looks like it to me. That sound like Arlo to you?"

Raylan shakes his head. "Nope." He sighs. "Sounds like someone else, though. Devil was a friend. Boyd would probably do it out of some kind of code of honor." He snorts.

"That's what I thought. Hey, grab me a doughnut, wouldja? That one there with the sprinkles'll do just fine."

Rachel leans as far forward as the seat belt will allow. "Art thinks some of the details might have slipped by Arlo, if he was even there when Devil was killed. He wants me to talk to him, ask him to go over exactly what happened."

"I thought usin' Rachel might be worth a try," Art says, mouth full of doughnut. "You're obviously not a candidate, and I'm not sure I'd do much better. If his version leaves out the head shot, maybe we can get his confession thrown out, bring suspicion back onto Crowder."

Raylan sips the coffee and reaches for another doughnut. "You think Arlo's defense attorney'll let her talk to 'im? She seems pretty sharp for a PD."

"Already called her. Arraignment's at nine, she said they'll have him at the courthouse by eight or a little past. We can have a few minutes then, or wait until after."

"After'd give you more time."

"But before would give us something to hand to the prosecutor, maybe get the charges related to Devil dismissed right off the bat," Rachel says. "I think I'll have a doughnut after all."

Raylan grabs the box and passes it back to her. He wonders if Boyd will be at the arraignment and what his reaction might be if Arlo's confession to Devil's murder gets tossed. He'd love to see the look on his face. "I say we try to talk to him before."

"That'd be my choice." Art's foot presses a little harder on the accelerator.

-o-o-O-o-o-

Raylan stares through the glass as Rachel sits down across from Arlo and his attorney. The woman looks better, more polished and professional than she did that day in the Marshal's office, but the same can't be said for Arlo. The defiance and arrogance is gone. His father looks diminished, scared even. The orange jumpsuit hangs on his thin frame and he needs a shave. Still, he smiles at Rachel, always the charmer.

"Wish I could hear what they're sayin'."

Art nods. "You'n me both." He leans against the wall, sipping his coffee.

Rachel speaks, then Arlo. Rachel makes some notes and speaks again. Arlo shakes his head. The lawyer leans in and whispers something in Arlo's ear, getting an angry response. Arlo points a finger at Rachel, his mouth curling into the sneer Raylan is all too familiar with.

"You don't read lips, do ya?" Art says.

"Unfortunately, no."

Rachel is talking again, and this time she pulls a paper from the file, turning it so Arlo and Ms. Phillips can read it and pointing to a line with one finger. Arlo looks up, confusion on his face, and the attorney smiles.

"Bingo!" says Art. "I think we got 'im."

-o-o-O-o-o-

There's no sign of Boyd, Ava, or Johnny in the courtroom. Raylan is disappointed, not just for himself, but surprisingly for Arlo.

Art must share the sentiment. He leans over and whispers. "Take the fall for a guy on a murder rap, seems like he at least oughta show up to support you."

Arlo's eyes search the crowd as he's led in, lingering for a moment on Raylan. The corners of his mouth turn up and he shrugs a shoulder. Raylan sighs and fiddles with the hat in his lap. His silenced cell-phone vibrates and he pulls it out. There's a text from Winona.

_will next thurs 2 work?_

It takes him a moment to remember what she's talking about. The therapist. Great. He can hardly wait. He texts back a 'yes' and shoves the phone back into his pocket. Art taps him on the arm and points to a sign next to the judge's bench: ABSOLUTELY NO CELL PHONE ACTIVITY IN THE COURTROOM. He shakes a finger at Raylan and laughs.

Rachel slides into the seat next to Raylan. "Arlo never mentioned the head shot and seemed surprised. He tried to backtrack and say it just slipped his mind, but it's pretty clear he didn't know anything about it. The defense attorney is going to ask for the charges pertaining to Devil Ellis' murder to be dismissed based on Arlo's obvious lack of information about the details of the crime."

"That's great," Art says. "Good job."

"But," Rachel says, giving Raylan a wary glance, "She's also going to ask for a complete psych evaluation. From what I saw in there, Arlo goes from lucid to dazed and confused in the space of a couple of minutes."

"You sure he's not fakin'? Or just off his bi-polar meds? Helen had an awful time gettin' him to take 'em. I'd imagine with her gone he's not takin' 'em at all."

He can tell she's weighing her words before she says anything else. "My grandmother; my mama's mother; had dementia. Mama called it 'hardening of the arteries', but it's all the same thing. It looks to me like your father's in the early stages, but...I'd say there's a good chance he's not competent to stand trial." She meets his eyes. "I think you need to be prepared for the judge to see it the same way."

"Well shit."

-o-o-O-o-o-

"Don't worry. I'm not gonna go on a shooting rampage," Raylan says, breaking the uneasy silence in the car as they head back toward Lexington. "Or take Arlo poisoned jam-cake on Visitor's Day. Although, that is a thought."

Art slides his eyes toward him, relaxing when he sees the half-grin on Raylan's face. "At least they're keepin' him at County until they can get a psych to do the eval."

"I can't believe she thought she could call her client incompetent and then turn around and ask for him to be released on his own recognizance." Rachel makes a disgusted sound at the back of her throat. "That's just a total contradiction."

"That's a lawyer for ya."

"An incompetent one."

"Nothing more than he deserves."

"It's probably safer for him to be in jail anyways," Art says.

Raylan raises an eyebrow.

"Not because of you, because of Boyd. Say somethin' happened to Arlo before the psych eval? Well, there's your reasonable doubt should Boyd ever be brought up on Devil's murder."

Raylan stares out the window as the mountains recede into the distance. When he left Harlan all those years ago with Helen's gift of freedom in his pocket, he felt the weight of his past, the millstone of being Arlo's son, the burden of his mother's pain, all of it, slip from his shoulders. Since his return to Kentucky, it's slowly settled back down on him and today it presses even more heavily than before. He leans his head back, tips the hat down, and tries to sleep.


	10. Regarding Henry

Raylan looks back at the scrawled numbers on the slip of paper as he drives slowly down the street glancing at the addresses posted above doorways and on porch posts. The street is one of the long, wide throughfares connecting downtown to the UK campus, with deep tree lawns and old southern-style houses lining both sides of the street. It's obvious that some are now divided into apartments, more likely for older, more discriminating grad students or teaching assistants. The address on the card matches a pristine white two-story with green shutters and a screened-in porch that wraps around the front and down one side. Winona's car is parked against the curb.

He picks up the hat off the seat, sets it down, then picks it up again. "Aw, hell," he says, slapping it on his head. He mounts the steps and pulls open the door with a creak. A sign hangs at eye level next to the front door. Please have a seat. Don't ring the bell. Thank you.

Glancing around, he spots Winona sitting in a wicker swing at the other end of the porch. He walks by several chairs clustered in pairs around small tables and joins her. "This the waitin' room?"

"I guess." She smiles up at him. "It's different. I like it."

"What? No stacks of outdated magazines? I'm disappointed."

She points to a basket beside one of the chairs. A sign hanging from it says 'Take one, leave one. Enjoy.' "There's books and magazines in there."

"Books?" He takes a seat on the swing beside her. "I hope that's not an indicator of how long the wait's gonna be."

She sighs. "I know you don't want to be here and I..."

"But I am, ain't I?" He stands abruptly, making the swing wobble. He paces back and forth in front of her and huffs out a breath. "You don't want to be here either."

"You're right. I don't really like the idea of talking about all of this."

"Then why are we here, Winona?"

She pushes with her toes and sets the swing in motion. "I don't know what else to do." Her shoulders rise and fall and she leans her head back, closing her eyes and laying a hand on the bulge of her belly. "I'm tired of fighting with you. I don't want him growing up with parents who argue every time they see each other."

"We weren't doin' that bad."

Her blue eyes fix on his. "So you're happy with the way things are?" She raises an eyebrow.

"Well, no, but it's not like you're gonna come ba..."

A door he hadn't noticed at the corner of the porch opens and a tall man in jeans and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up approaches. His hair and mustache are brown spackled with grey, and wire-rimmed glasses perch on his hawk-like nose. He holds out a broad hand. "I'm Henry Schafer," he says, smiling. "You must be Raylan." His handshake is firm and he meets Raylan's eyes. "And this must be Winona. Sarah Delano referred you?"

"Yes, " Winona says. She gets up too quickly and sways for a moment. Raylan grabs her elbow to steady her.

"Good doctor."

"Yes, she is."

"Follow me and we'll get started," Henry says. Instead of heading in the house, he leads them out the same door he just came in. They follow him along a brick path banked on both sides by flowers in various stages of bloom. "My wife teaches botany at the university. This is her laboratory." He laughs. The path curves and they come to a small building. "This was the original summer kitchen. I put in the windows on the east wall and made it into my office."

The office is small, but airy with the windows open to the breeze. There's a large oak desk, with two chairs in front of it, but he points to a corner sitting area with a couch and several more chairs in some kind of muted flower pattern that almost matches the garden outside. "Coffee?" He asks. "There's iced tea or lemonade as well."

They both decline. Winona is nervous, twisting her hair around a finger as she takes a seat on the couch. Raylan has to fight the urge to grab her by the hand and make a run for it. Instead, he forces himself to sit down beside her.

Henry smiles again as he sets his coffee down and eases his long frame into one of the chairs. There's a clipboard on the table and he picks it up, taking a pen from his shirt pocket. "So," he says, looking at them in turn. "What do you want?"

-o-o-O-o-o-

Winona is still thinking when Raylan speaks.

"What do I _want_?" He snorts. "What kind of question is that?"

If Henry is surprised by Raylan's reaction it doesn't show. "Human beings are pretty simple, really," he says. "We do things because they bring us pleasure, or, if unpleasant, they hold the promise of bringing us pleasure later. Since in all likelihood coming here and paying money to talk to a stranger doesn't bring you pleasure, there has to be some reward you're looking for as a result. So...what do you want? What's at the end of this dark tunnel of self-revelation?"

The muscles in Raylan's jaw twitch. "I want us to stop fighting all the time," Winona says quickly, jumping in to avoid a possible angry outburst.

"We don't fight all the time." Raylan sighs. "We don't even see each other enough to fight."

"I see from the paperwork that you two aren't currently living together, correct?"

"No, we're not," Winona says. "I'm living with my sister."

"Who drives her crazy, by the way." He looks at Winona. "Maybe Gayle's the one who should be here."

"Oh, for God's sake, Raylan."

Henry looks at both of them, face still passive, but his eyes are bright the way Raylan's are sometimes when he's talking about a case. She gets the feeling Henry likes his job. He crosses his legs and fixes his gaze on Raylan. "What do you want?" He asks again.

Raylan looks down, fiddling with the hat in his hands. The discomfort radiates off him in waves, and she feels a pang of guilt for asking him to come here.

"I want what I thought I _had _before she took off and left me a three-line note," he says. His voice is hard, quiet, his eyes focused on the hat in his lap.

"And what did you think you had?"

"Look, this is _bullshit_," Raylan says.

"Okay, let's leave it at that for now." Henry sets down the clipboard and steeples his hands. "You say you want to stop fighting." He looks at Winona. "What do you fight about?"

Raylan beats her to it. "My job. She hates my job."

"I don't hate your job, Raylan, it's just the way it..." She presses her thumbs against her temples trying to quell the beginnings of a headache. "...it consumes you."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"How so?" Henry leans forward eyes on hers, ignoring Raylan's comment, his posture encouraging her to continue.

"He's just..."

"Tell _him_, not me. Talk to him."

She folds her hands in her lap and takes a deep breath. "I know your job has odd hours, long hours sometimes. That's not the problem. It's just...even if you're with me...when you're thinking about work, which is pretty much all the time, you just aren't there. It's like you don't even see me...unless you want..."

"What? Unless I want what? Sex?" He huffs out a breath. "As I recall you've never objected. In fact, you were usually pretty enthusiastic." Raylan pushes up from the couch and walks to the window.

"Why wouldn't I be?" She shrugs. "I like sex. And besides, sometimes it's the only way to feel close to you."

His shoulders slump and he shoves his hands in his pockets. "Well, none of that matters anymore, does it?"

Henry's voice is soft. "Why doesn't it matter? If this is really what you want, if _she's _what you really want, then it does matter."

"She's already gone."

"Looks to me like she's right here."

Raylan pivots then, his eyes searching her face so intently that she flushes. "You sayin' there's a chance for us?" He shakes his head. "What? You gonna change your mind _again_?" Raylan's always been good at hiding his emotions, except for anger, but now for just an instant, she sees the hurt there in his eyes and it's like a slap in the face.

"Raylan...I..."

"What? Why are we here, Winoa? Why did you drag me into this? If it's just to stop the fighting I think we can manage that on our own."

She can't help rolling her eyes. "Yeah, because we've done such a great job of it so far."

Now Henry's gaze shifts back at her. "What do you want?" He asks again. "Really."

"I told you," she shifts uncomfortably and uncrosses her legs. "I want to stop arguing. I want us to be able to get along."

"That's all?" Henry raises an eyebrow skeptically. "There's really nothing else you're hoping to accomplish here?"

She feels a rush of heat and a bead of sweat trickles down the back of her neck. She lifts her hair, pulling it to one side and twisting it nervously around a finger. Both men look at her expectantly. She stares down at her lap, at the soft bulge showing under her shirt and thinks about raising this child alone. She knows she can do it. Millions of women do it. She has Gayle and Raylan won't abandon his child or her like some men do. But it isn't what she _wants_. It isn't what she was hoping for that morning when she told him about the baby. _What do you want? _She swallows, her mouth dry. "I want us to be a family." She forces it out in a whisper.

Raylan stares at her for a long moment. "Jesus Christ, Winona." He sinks down onto the couch beside her, elbows on his knees, the heels of his hands pressed to his forehead. "Jesus-fucking-Christ."

-o-o-O-o-o-

"Marshal Givens...Raylan...wait just a moment, would you?"

Raylan pauses with one hand on the doorframe and watches Winona walk purposefully down the sidewalk and around the porch, disappearing at the corner of the house. She doesn't look back. He turns back to Henry Schafer. The man is holding sheaf of papers and looking at Raylan over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses like a disgruntled professor.

"You left quite a lot of holes in your personal history on my form."

"Yeah, well...it's personal." Raylan says. He hears a car engine gunning on the street. She always does that. No wonder her car breaks down all the time. The tires screech as she pulls away. Damn it, he'd wanted a word with her. A private word.

"I understand that there may be things in your past you're reluctant to discuss."

"Good. Then we understand each other."

Henry keeps his eyes leveled on Raylan's. "I can't force you to tell me anything, of course. But just know that sometimes...usually...the things we don't want to talk about are the things we need to talk about the most."

"I don't need to talk about anything."

He slips his glasses off and rubs the bridge of his nose. "So none of what we talked about in there is helpful to you?"

"All that happened is she's pissed off at me. Again."

"She revealed something to you and your reaction was anger."

Raylan dips his head, hiding under the hat. "I don't like bein' jerked around."

"You think that's what she's doing?"

He doesn't, not really, but instead of answering Henry, he just shrugs.

"When someone has hurt us, it's hard to trust again," Henry says.

Raylan sighs. "How can I apologize when she never tells me what I did?"

"I wasn't talking about _her_ not trusting _you_," Henry says with a smile. "I'll see you next week."

_A/N: Many thanks to MSBrooklyn and RedMolly for their help in working through this chapter. It's much appreciated._


	11. Rethinking the Past

She's driving way too fast on the way back to Louisville, so she isn't surprised when she sees the flashing lights in the rear view mirror. She fishes in her purse for her wallet and leans over to get the registration out of the glove box, handing them both to the officer before he asks.

"You know how fast you were goin' Ma'am?"

She has no idea. "Over the speed limit, I'd imagine," she says.

"Quite a bit." He nods. He holds up the license and registration. "I'll be right back."

She watches in the mirror as he slides back into his car and picks up the radio. Maybe she'll get away with a warning. She hasn't had a ticket since they lived in Georgia. Remembering that time, she smiles. Raylan had been gone for a week on a training exercise. When he called to say he was back, she'd left work early and floored the accelerator in her hurry to get home to him. She'd been pulled over doing fifty in a thirty-five mile an hour zone. Their reunion had been worth every cent of the fine and more.

Raylan. What she told him the night before she left was true; she would never feel the same way about any other man. No one could get her blood running hot like Raylan Givens and there was good and bad in that. Lately mostly bad. Like today. He turned it around on her. Here she was, trying to do the right thing, trying to find a way for them to learn to get along for the baby. Their baby. And what did he do? He used the therapy session to make it all her fault.

Well, she knew that already, goddammit.

She knew that if it were up to Raylan, they'd still be married, living...where? In Miami? She wonders if he'd still have shot that man, the one whose death sent him back to Kentucky, back to her. If she'd found a way to stay with him would some of that ever-present anger have faded? Would there have been other children, besides this accidental blessing swimming around inside her? Would they be tan and happy, going to the beach and little league games and dance recitals? She's lost in this alternate universe when the trooper returns, startling her. He hands her a slip of paper through the open window.

"I'm giving you a warning. Those go in the system now, right along with tickets," he says sternly, leaning in slightly. "So you watch your speed and drive careful, okay?"

"I will, officer. Thank you." She drives the rest of the way to Gayle's at what seems like a snail's pace, her mind on the road not taken.

-o-o-O-o-o-

"You just want me to set the bottle here?" Randy asks with a grin. "Looks like you're gonna drink it all anyway. It'll save me walkin' back and forth."

Raylan picks up the glass and drains it. "Sounds fine to me." He pours himself another and looks around the bar. It's only five in the afternoon and the early after-work crowd is just starting to trickle in. He's already three drinks down. After leaving Henry he'd called Art and told him he wasn't coming back in today. He came straight here. He can't stop thinking about Winona. She wants them to be a family? What the hell? She's the one who left. And she's made it pretty clear since then that she was going to stay gone. Now this. He pours another drink. Goddammit. What does he want? _ Shit._How about a transfer to Seattle?

He unfolds the paper Henry gave back to him and looks at the questions he left blank the first time. _How would you describe your father? How would you describe your mother? What was their relationship like? How did they relate to you? _"Hey, Randy," he says. "You got a pen?"

"Sure." The bartender comes over and drops one on the bar.

Raylan stares at his reflection in the mirror above the bar and back down at the paper. He takes a sip of bourbon and picks up the pen. He stares at the paper again. A moment later he tosses the pen down and empties the glass. This is bullshit, just like he told Winona and that quack earlier. He pours another drink and looks at the almost empty bottle. There's at least another glass in there, maybe two.

"You mind if I just take this upstairs?"

"Go ahead, I'll just put it on your tab."

"Thanks." He swallows down the drink he just poured and slides down off the stool, weaving for a moment.

"You alright?" Randy glances up from wiping down the bar.

"I'm fine." Raylan scoops up the papers and pen and grabs the bottle. He opens the door to the stairway. It seems a long way up and his feet feel like lead. He fumbles the key in the lock and flips the light on, tossing his keys and cell on the little table inside the door. The hat follows, but he keeps the bottle tight in his fist along with Henry's damn paper and the pen.

He sits down on the bed and looks at the papers again. _How would you describe your father? _He's an asshole. Raylan wonders what Henry would think of that answer. He's probably heard it plenty of times before. He wonders if Henry's patients are like the criminals he chases, always spouting the same bullshit about why they did what they did. Always blaming someone else. He wonders if Henry ever gets sick of it, or if he relishes asking his intrusive questions the way Raylan relishes catching the sons of bitches he goes after.

Pulling both pillows to one side of the bed, he leans back against the headboard and sips his drink. He's at the point where his stomach is telling him to quit but his head isn't quite getting the message. The cellphone chimes from the other room, but he doesn't answer it. A beep moments later lets him know there's a message. He should check it, but instead he picks up the pen and starts writing. He writes until the lines blur on the page and he slips into unconsciousness.

When he wakes up the papers are scattered across the bed and his stomach is churning. He figures it for the middle of the night, but a glance at the clock tells him it's only just past ten. Then there's a crash of drums and echoing bass beat from below and he realizes what woke him. Thursday night is 80's night. He recalls the poster hanging on the door announcing tonight's Van Halen tribute band. He pushes to a sitting position and the room swims sickeningly. His head pounds. He groans and flops back onto the pillows, but this position provides no relief. In fact, it makes things worse. The room spins and he barely makes it to the bathroom in time. Once he's certain his stomach is empty, he peels off his clothes and steps carefully into the shower. Holding onto the wall for support, he runs the water as hot as he can stand it for several minutes, then switches to cold. His teeth are chattering when he finally gets out, but he's pretty much sober.

He gathers the papers on the bed into a pile. The uneven drunken scrawl covers one whole page, continuing onto the back. Evidently he's written the entire history of _Life With Arlo_ while under the influence. Sighing, he stuffs the papers into the top drawer of his dresser and goes to the kitchen, snagging his cell phone off the table on his way. There are three messages. The first one is from Winona apologizing for leaving the therapist's in a huff. Her voice sounds small and sad, and he almost calls her back before he thinks better of it. She's probably already in bed asleep. He drinks a glass of water as he listens to the second message. It's from Johnny Crowder.

"I been thinkin' 'bout what you said and I mighta remembered somethin'. Call me." There was a pause and then "Not at the bar." What does Johnny think he is, an asshole?

The third message is from Tim. "Found something interesting. Give me a call."

He's already decided not to call Winona and Johnny is likely still at the bar at this hour. Tim never sleeps. He fills the glass again with water from the tap and leans against the counter while he punches in the other marshal's number. Tim answers and Raylan can hear bar noise in the background. "Whatcha got for me?"

"Hey Raylan, just a minute." The phone is muffled for a moment and when Tim comes back on it's much quieter. "That number on Devil Ellis' phone; the one we couldn't trace? Comes back to a throwaway cell phone no longer in service, but...get this...it was purchased in Detroit."

His brain is fuzzy, but not too fuzzy to figure out where this is headed. "Quarles was backin' Devil to get to Boyd?"

"Startin' to look like it. I'm gonna fax a picture to the place that sold the cell phone, but those places have a high turnover, so I'm not counting on an I.D." He chuckles. "Although the guy did have a distinctive look."

"Big baby-headed albino...think they get many of those?"

"Let's hope not," Tim says.


	12. Morning Conversations

It's the next morning by the time he gets ahold of Johnny. Raylan figures he's probably waking him, but he also knows that it's only a matter of time before Boyd figures out that his cousin is the one who told Limehouse about Devil's murder.

"Hullo?' Johnny's voice creaks like old wood.

Raylan gets straight to the point. "I got your message. You said you've remembered something?" Silence. "Johnny? You there?"

"Ye-ah, Raylan, I'm here. Gimmee a minute."

He hears a shuffling noise and several grunts and realizes that Johnny is likely getting himself out of bed and into the chair. "Shit, Raylan," Johnny says once he's back on. "You couldn't wait 'til a decent hour?"

"How was I to know when you get yourself outta bed in the morning."

"I like to sleep in," Johnny says. "Not all that much to get up for most days."

Raylan has nothing to say to that. He tucks the phone between his chin and shoulder as he unlocks the Lincoln and slides behind the wheel. "What'd you remember?"

There's a deep sigh on the other end. "I'm not talkin' about this now. Not over the phone."

"Well, shit, Johnny...you want me to just show up down there, pull in the drive?" He snorts. "Boyd'll never notice that." He eases out into traffic, turning toward the courthouse.

"You know that diner off of Stinking Creek Road 'bout halfway between here and Lexington?"

"Didn't the health department close it down?"

"Naw. That's the one in Benton. Meet me at the diner on Sunday morning. Boyd and Ava have taken to goin' to church. Boyd's idea of 'community relations', I 'spect. Don't know where they spend the rest of Sunday, but I don't usually see 'em. The bar's closed so I reckon I can get away unnoticed."

"Alright. Sunday morning...what time?"

"I can be there by ten I s'pose."

"I'll see you then," he says. "And Johnny?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful. You think anyone's followin' you, double around and go back, or head into Benton to the Walmart."

"Why Raylan, I didn't know you cared."

"See you Sunday, Johnny."

-o-o-O-o-o-

She's never been an early riser. But since she's been away from Raylan living in Gayle's busy house, no matter how late she stays up some inner alarm wakes her with the sun. She's tried staying in bed but all she does is roll and toss and relive the past in her head. She's not sure where this sudden change is coming from. Maybe the baby-hormones are preparing her for less sleep, or maybe she's unconsciously avoiding the confusing dreams that seem to invade her slumber more and more frequently. Maybe she just craves the time alone, without Gayle's hovering. No one else is up when she makes the coffee and takes a place at the kitchen table to savor the first cup.

Raylan hasn't called since she left that idiotic apology the other night. She's not surprised, and not sure she blames him. How did she expect him to react? _What do you want? _She's asked herself that a hundred times since Henry posed the question. The answer is always the same. She wants what she's wanted ever since the night he walked up to her in that Salt Lake City bar. She wants Raylan. Without even trying she can picture his easy grin, the way he tips his head down when he's exasperated, the way his eyes light up when he sees her, even now after all the shit they've been through. All the shit she's _put_ him through.

She didn't expect to miss him like this, the way she imagines someone misses an arm or a leg that's been amputated. It's a physical ache. She finds herself looking for excuses to call him. She wonders if the whole therapy thing is just a ruse to spend time with him. She still can't believe he agreed to it. Maybe he's missing her the same way. The thought both comforts and terrifies her. _What in the hell are they going to do?_

There's a creak of footsteps, just enough warning for Winona to clear her mind of Raylan before Gayle comes into the kitchen.

"You're up early."

"I like the quiet."

"You sure you're sleeping okay? You should tell the doctor if you can't sleep. Sleep is important when you're..."

Winona takes a sip of coffee and counts to ten in her head. "I sleep fine. I just wake up earlier than usual, that's all."

Gayle pours herself a cup and pulls milk, butter, and orange juice out of the fridge. Picking up the bread she slides several slices into the toaster. "More coffee?" She asks Winona, the carafe hovering above her cup.

"Just a little, thanks."

"So how did it go the other day with that counselor?" Gayle asks. The toast pops up and she spreads a thick slice with peanut butter. "Emma! Breakfast!" She calls.

"Fine," Winona says. She stirs a little milk into her coffee and turns her face up to the sun streaming through the kitchen window.

Four-year old Emma pads into the kitchen in her pajamas, clutching a worn stuffed rabbit, her brother on her heels. Kyle is tossing a baseball and catching it in his glove.

"Not in the house," Gayle says.

"Sorry, Mom."

"Mornin'." Peter plants a kiss on his wife's cheek. "Morning, Winona." He lays a hand lightly on her shoulder as he follows his son out the backdoor.

"Can I eat my toast in the other room and watch _Babar_?' Emma asks.

Gayle smiles down at her daughter. "No peanut butter on the couch."

"I'll sit in the bean bag, okay, mama?" She takes the plate carefully, transferring the rabbit to the other hand and looks at Winona. "Wanna watch with me Aunt Noni?"

"Maybe in a minute," Winona says. "You go on." She stirs the coffee again and takes a deep breath. "Raylan came, too."

Gayle turns, her eyes skeptical. "To the counselor? You're kidding me. Why?"

She takes a sip of coffee. "I asked him to."

Gayle pours more coffee for herself and pulls out the chair across from Winona. "Why?" She asks again.

Winona stares over Gayle's shoulder out the window to the driveway. Kyle, three years older than Emma, is helping his father load baseball equipment into the back of the van for the game later today. She shrugs. "We're going to have a baby. If we want to raise this child together, we need to figure this out."

Gayle raises an eyebrow. "Meaning what?"

She decides honesty is better than evasion. Gayle always figures it out anyway. It's as if she can read Winona's mind. She's a lot like Raylan in that regard, although Winona would never dare to tell her so. "I miss him." She looks around the small kitchen at all the signs of family life; Emma's preschool papers magneted to the fridge, Kyle's threadbare Cincinnati Reds hat on the counter, Peter's briefcase leaning against the wall, his suit-jacket and tie tossed over the chair where he left it the night before. She meets Gayle's gaze. "I want _this_. I want a family."

For once, Gayle doesn't attack, at least not a frontal assault. "I know you do." She takes a sip of coffee. "But you know Raylan isn't..." She bites back whatever she was going to say and sighs instead, shaking her head. "I just can't picture him in therapy."

"He was pretty uncomfortable," Winona admits. "But then, so was I." Another sip of coffee. "This isn't all his fault."

To her surprise, her sister nods slowly. "Nothing's ever all one person's fault."

Winona cocks her head and stares at Gayle.

"What?" she says, rising to pour herself more coffee. "You're a grown woman who's about to be a mother, and if you decide to go back to Raylan, I suppose my job is to stand back and be there when it falls apart again, not shake my finger in your face and try to tell you what to do."

Winona barely stifles a laugh. "Peter's been talking to you, hasn't he?" She makes a mental note to thank her brother-in-law later.

Gayle doesn't confirm or deny. She busies herself at the sink, her back to Winona.

Winona considers her next words carefully. "I thought I might ask him to the cookout for Kyle's birthday next weekend, if you don't mind."

There's an unmistakeable tension in Gayle's shoulders when she shrugs. "That's fine, I suppose. He's gonna have to get used to all of us if he wants to spend holidays with this baby, no matter what you two 'figure out'."

Winona gets up and hugs her sister. "Thank you," she says. She tops off her coffee. "Now I have a date with my niece. I'm going to go watch _Babar_."

_A/N I know NOTHING...less than nothing, about current Saturday morning cartoons. Rather than date myself by having Gayle's daughter watching Scooby Doo or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, I chose Babar, who seems to be a classic, and is my nephew's absolute favorite._


	13. Shall We Dance?

There's a Sunday-morning crowd at the diner; farmers in their cleanest overalls sipping coffee, John Deere hats on the seat beside them; four women in colorful dresses and flowered hats, their table so crowded with purses Raylan wonders where they're going to put the food. A young mother smiles at him as he walks past. She has a toddler on her lap and a baby in a battered high chair pulled up to the table. He glances down at the baby who gives him a toothless grin. His stomach does a flip that has nothing to do with meeting Johnny or the possibility of nailing Boyd.

He spies Johnny at a table in the middle of the room. The other man has already taken the side facing out and Raylan is uncomfortable as he pulls out the chair across from him and sits down. "Morning, Johnny." He sets the hat on the table and cranes his neck around automatically. He hates having his back to the door. He briefly wonders if Johnny planned it this way to mess with him.

"Mornin' Raylan. Want some coffee?" He motions to the harried waitress and she fills Raylan's cup, tops off Johnny's and drops several plastic cups of creamer on the table.

"Be right back to take your order, fellas."

Raylan turns again, watching the waitress' back as she walks away.

"Somethin' wrong?" Johnny is looking at him, one eyebrow raised in question.

"No." He shifts in his seat.

"You're as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs."

"I don't like sittin' where I can't see the door."

Johnny shoots him a crooked grin. "That's easily remedied." He pushes the chair away from the table and deftly wheels through the narrow space until he's beside Raylan. "Go on," he prods him. "Wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable for our conversation."

Raylan picks up his own chair and moves it around to face the entrance. It's a relief and he settles in to study the menu.

"You were right about Devil," Johnny says after the waitress walks away to place their order. His voice is low, measured. "He got it in his head that Boyd wasn't handlin' things right; that we could make more money if we hitched ourselves up with that Detroit guy, ran the Harlan branch. He came to me with the idea. I let him convince me."

Raylan looks at the other man over his coffee cup. "Then you told Boyd."

Johnny stares past Raylan, his eyes unfocused. "It wasn't like that." He lowers his head. "What was I supposed to do? Boyd is my blood."

"Blood that 'bout got you killed." Raylan says.

Something in Johnny's face shifts. There's a flash of anger and bitterness in his eyes. "That ain't the reason."

"So what is the reason, Johnny?"

The waitress interrupts, placing their plates on the table and refilling their coffee.

"Anything else?" She asks with a smile.

"No thank you, ma'am," Johnny picks up his fork and starts shoveling the eggs and potatoes piled on the plate into his mouth.

Raylan drenches his pancakes with syrup and takes a bite, his eyes never leaving Johnny's face. "So, why'd you do it? Why'd you give Devil to Boyd and then turn around and try to send him to prison?"

Johnny washes down the food with a gulp of coffee. "That Detroit guy didn't care nothin' about us." He swipes a hand across his mouth. "He'da killed Devil soon as look at him, once he got what he wanted. Tellin' Boyd was the best thing to protect all of us. I didn't know Boyd was gonna kill him."

Knowing what he knows, Raylan doesn't doubt Johnny's right, about Qualres, anyway, but it still doesn't answer his question.

"So why get Limehouse involved? Why'd you make that call, Johnny?"

Johnny bites into his toast, his face flushed. He swallows. "I did it for her."

"Ava?" Raylan puts his fork down with a sigh. "Aw, shit. You tellin' me you're sweet on Ava?"

"Not the way you think." He shakes his head. "That girl..." His eyes brighten, looking into the past. "You remember how she was Raylan." He points a skinny finger. "I know you do, the way she followed you around like some stray pup. Ava was the sweetest girl you'd ever want to know. Her marryin' Bowman was bad enough and the way it ended..." he sighs. "...but now...with Boyd...she's becomin' just like him. Somethin' doesn't happen soon it's gonna be too late." There's a shadow in his eyes. "If it ain't already."

Ava marrying Bowman was bad enough all right, Raylan thinks, but not bad enough for Johnny or Boyd or anyone else to intervene before she picked up that shotgun. All his instincts tingling, Raylan fixes his gaze at the other man. "What's Ava done, Johnny?"

"She's runnin' whores, aint' that bad enough?" He pushes his plate away angrily.

Raylan leans forward. "What's she done?"

"We're not here to talk about Ava," Johnny says. "You wanna know about Boyd and Devil or not?"

"I wanna know _all_ of it."

-o-o-O-o-o-

"So..." Art leans back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest. "You think there's more to this besides Boyd killing Devil? Something involving Ava?"

Raylan nods. "But Johnny wouldn't say anymore after the bit about her running the whores."

"That's new. Who used to do that?"

A corner of Raylan's mouth turns up. "Run the Harlan bordello?" Then he frowns. "Guy by the name of Delroy Pitts. Used to like to rough up his girls. I had a run in with him myself not too long ago over that. Ellen May had a split lip."

"So what happened to him?"

"No idea."

"That'd be the place to start, I'd think." Art picks up his pen. "Pull his file. Surely he has a record. Everyone in Harlan has a record, don't they?" His eyes twinkle above the glasses perched on the end of his nose.

"What about wit sec for Johnny? Do you think it'll fly?"

"If it gets us Boyd Crowder, I'll sew the wings on myself." He looks up at Raylan. "He seem scared of Boyd?"

"Justifiably so, yeah." Raylan recalls the color draining from Johnny's face when he finally recounted the whole story of Devil's demise. The other man admitted he hadn't been all that fond of Devil, found him to impulsive and full of himself to be trusted, but seeing him shot like that; in cold blood, with no hesitiation, well, it gave him pause. Still, Raylan gets the feeling that it isn't this incident that's pushed Johnny into betrayal. Something else has happened, and he'd bet money it has to do with Ava.

"I may pay a visit to one of the girls at Audrey's," Raylan says. Art's head snaps up before he can finish and he sighs. "Not like that, Art. Jesus, I ain't that desperate. I thought Ellen May might know something, if she's not too high to talk."

"You talked to Winona lately?"

"Yeah, she doesn't know anything about what Ava's up to." Raylan keeps his head down, hiding a smirk.

Art shakes his head. "Not everything has to do with the case, Raylan."

"She's good. Baby's good." He lays a hand on his hip and tips his head down. "She invited me to some birthday party cookout for her nephew next weekend."

"You goin'?"

He shrugs. The idea of spending the day with Gayle staring him down doesn't really appeal, but he feels like Winona's asking is a kind of test. "I 'spose. If there's nothing else goin' down here..."

"Go," Art says. "If there's 'something else' I think I have a couple of other marshals in the office who might be able to handle things. Even down in Harlan, believe it or not. You showin' up might go a long way toward gettin' on Winona's good side."

"Thanks, I s'pose you're right," Raylan says as he turns to go. Art's voice stops him.

"You want her back?"

He doesn't answer right away.

"Your business, not mine."

"No, Art, I mean...yes. Hell," Raylan turns and sits back down in the chair, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know."

"Well, she's left you twice. Might be she just isn't cut out for life with a U.S. Marshal."

"Or maybe it's just me," Raylan says ruefully.

Art opens the drawer and takes out the bourbon and two glasses. He raises an eyebrow at Raylan, who nods. "Could be." Art pours and hands Raylan a glass. "You ever watch Dancin' With the Stars?"

Raylan lets out a choked laugh, startled by the sudden change in subject. "Not hardly. Why?"

"Faylene loves it. Likes me to watch with her, so...well, sometimes you gotta make 'em happy. But I'm drawing the line at dancin' lessons. Anyway...Faylene, she loves the waltzes. They're slow and romantic and the couples stay close together just swirlin' around the dance floor. It's pretty. Last night she says that's like us, like our marriage. We're slow and steady. We started together and we'll end it together."

Raylan keeps his eyes on his boss, smiling, still not sure where this is going.

"It got me thinkin'. You and Winona sure aren't the waltz." Art chuckles. "You two're more like the tango. Those couples practically throw each other across the room sometimes. Then pull each other back close, like they can't decide whether they love each other or hate each other. Maybe a little of both."

"I don't hate her."

Art grins at him. "But she frustrates you. She's one of the few people I've ever seen who's able to give you back as good as she gets."

"That why you've always liked her so much?"

"Maybe," Art says, drinking down the last of the whiskey and winking at Raylan. "Just maybe."


	14. Anger Management

"You forgot the forms?" Henry taps his pen against the side of the clipboard and eyes Raylan skeptically.

He runs his fingers along the brim of the hat and lays it on the seat beside him. "They got wet."

"Which is it?" Henry chuckles. "You forgot them or they got wet?"

Winona spies Raylan's eyes slide to her and the corner of her mouth twitches as she struggles to hide a smile. She can tell he's not happy about being on this side of an interrogation, even a friendly one.

He huffs out a breath. "Both. They got wet, I put 'em up to dry off and then I forgot 'em."

"Okay. We'll talk about that later." Henry glances at his notes and turns his focus to Winona. "When we ended things last time you were talking about being a family. What do you mean by that?"

Her forehead wrinkles and she purses her lips. "Excuse me? I'm not sure I understand what you're asking." She crosses and uncrosses her legs trying to get comfortable.

"There are all kinds of families, Winona. How do you see the one you want?" He waves his hand to include both of them. "Married? Living together? Living apart and raising your child as co-parents?"

Sitting here face to face with Raylan, what seemed so simple the other morning in Gayle's sunny kitchen is as clouded and confused as today's gray Kentucky sky. "I...I don't know." She shrugs. "I guess I see us...together...somehow."

"And what's standing in the way of that? Why aren't you together now?"

Raylan turns his head and raises an eyebrow. He's evidently very interested in her answer. She flushes under his gaze, heat spreading through her. After a moment she manages to summon up some of the rightous anger she felt in the weeks after he was shot. Looking at Raylan, not at Henry she spits out the words. "The day I told you about the baby you went and got yourself _shot_and it wasn't even your j..."

Raylan interrupts. "Loretta needed someone who..."

Henry holds up a hand. "Let her talk, then you can have your turn." He nods to Winona. "Go on."

"_Shot_, Raylan," She repeats. "Did you know Art sent a trooper after me? When he pulled me over and told me Art was looking for me, I thought you were dead." She gets the last word out and her eyes fill.

"You were already leavin' me then," he says. "Why'd you come back? Why'd you let me think you were gonna stay?"

"I _wanted_to stay!" She's blinks, struggling in vain to keep the tears from falling. "I wanted you to give me a reason to stay."

He points to her belly with a long finger. "I thought you had a reason to stay."

Her hand goes to her stomach in an protective gesture and she glares back at Raylan. "He's the reason I left."

He shoots up from the couch, pacing in front of her like a caged animal. "A reason to stay?" He says again. "What does that even mean? Either you want to be with me or you don't. Seems to me it's pretty simple."

She looks at Henry, watching them impassively. Calm radiates from the man and Winona soaks it in, taking a deep breath. She wipes her eyes and makes a conscious effort to keep her voice level. "Raylan," she says. When he doesn't raise his eyes to her she pushes up from the couch and blocks his path. "When I told you about the baby, you promised me we'd go to Glynco, then never made mention of it again until after I left. You talked about getting us a house, but never took the time to look at even _one_. It was pretty clear to me that it...that I...wasn't a priority."

"You think I don't..."

"Your job always comes first. You choose it over me every time. If that hasn't changed by now it's never going to change!"

His head snaps up. "You sayin' I never put you first?" He hisses. He moves closer, his finger practically jabbing her in the chest. "I put my _job_on the line to help you put that money back. Or don't you remember?"

"Oh, you did _not_just say that," Winona snaps. She reaches behind her for her purse and digs out her keys. "How could I forget? You remind me every chance you get. Hell, you even accused me of takin' it again and planning to run off to Costa Rica. And it's amazing to me how you not only brought it up again but managed to make your job the most important thing in the whole situation." She shoulders her purse, keys jangling in her hand.

"And there you go, runnin' away again," Raylan snorts. "If that's all you're gonna do whenever you don't get your way, we might as well stop wastin' time with this therapy bullshit."

"Go to hell." Her heart is pounding, she's inches from Raylan and she's taken aback by how much this anger feels like the passion that fuels their relationship. She doesn't know whether she wants to slap his face or kiss him. Raylan is staring down at her, the pulse in his neck jumping, and she's sure he's feeling the same way. Dragging in a ragged breath, she backs away.

"Winona," Henry rises from the chair, his voice soft. "You don't really want to leave, do you? There's a bathroom just down that hall. Why don't you take a moment?"

He's given her an out, a way to get away from Raylan without leaving, and she takes it gladly. In the tiny bathroom she leans into the counter and looks at herself in the mirror. There's a stranger staring back. She closes her eyes and covers her belly with both hands.

-o-o-O-o-o-

His eyes follow Winona's rapid retreat down the hallway. Fingers twitching, he jams his hands into his pockets.

"What are you feeling right now?"

Raylan glares at Henry as if the man is insane. "Whaddya think?"

"What I think isn't the point. I'm asking you. Are you angry? Are you sad?"

"Sad? Why the hell would I be sad?"

"So you're angry?" When Raylan doesn't answer Henry returns to his chair, picking up the damn clipboard and writing something down. "So, while we have a minute, tell me about those papers again? The ones you forgot?"

Raylan sighs, glancing back down the hallway where Winona disappeared, wishing he could follow her. Maybe they could sneak out the back. "I toldja. They got wet."

"I have more. I can get you another copy."

"You're just gonna keep at it until I bring the damn things back, aren't you?"

"Since we seem focused on occupation today, yes, I am. That's my job. I'd imagine it's a lot like you questioning a suspect. When I meet resistance, it usually means there's something there that needs to be explored." He leans back in the chair, crossing his long legs. "Would you say there was a lot of anger in your house when you were growing up?"

A bitter laugh escapes before Raylan can squash it.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," Henry says with a small smile that fades quickly. His compassionate gaze zeros in on Raylan. "Was there violence?"

At this, Raylan turns his back on the counselor and walks to the windows. The garden is a mash of bright colors, stark against the grayness of the day. The smell of lilacs drifts in the open window. His mother's favorite flower. There was a huge bush beside Helen's back porch and she used to cut them and let him bring Mama huge bunches. He remembers finding her more than once with her face buried in the bouquets, inhaling the heady scent. A door slams in his memory and the scene changes quickly to one of purple blooms scattered on the floor amid puddles of water and shards of broken glass, his mama holding a hand to her face, blood seeping through her fingers. This vivid memory, combined with Henry's question makes his chest tighten and he takes a deep breath. "Yeah," he says, mostly to himself. "There was."

-o-o-O-o-o-

"What were you and Henry talking about when I came back?" Winona asks. She's leaning against her car, hands tucked behind her. The sway of her back stretches the cotton of her shirt tight across her belly, making her look more pregnant. He barely resists the urge to lay his hand on the swell. There's an uneasy truce between them after their outburst, but he's not sure the gesture would be welcomed.

"Nothin' really."

"You seemed upset." Her lips curve up slightly. "In a different way than when I left."

It's annoying that she knows his moods so well, and yet, he's come to realize it's one of the things that draws him back to her over and over again. "Henry is very insightful," he says, although that isn't really an answer.

"Yes, he is." Winona nods slowly. Her anger, like his own, abated as the counselor changed the subject and walked them through a listening exercise. They had instructions to talk for at least twenty minutes either in person or on the phone, every day until they saw him again the following week. At least he didn't tell them what to talk about.

"So I guess we need to set up a schedule to 'talk'?" He rolls his eyes and she smiles but doesn't answer right away. He fiddles with the hat in his hands, then slides it on as he looks down at her. "Evening might be best, but I'm up pretty late. I don't wanna wake you up."

"How about in the morning?"

"Thought you'd be sleepin' in."

"I wake up pretty early these days."

He decides it might be nice to talk before the day takes it's toll. Maybe there'd be less chance of old issues coming up. "Okay. I'll call you when I get up."

She's chewing on her bottom lip, eyes cast down. One stilletto-clad toe swings out and brushes against his shin. "Sorry I told you to go to hell."

He shrugs. "You were mad about me bringin' up the money."

"Yes, but..." She shakes her head. "I had a talk with myself in the bathroom..."

"Talkin' to yourself now, are you?" He grins. "Maybe you should tell Henry about that."

"Ha. Funny," she says. "You're right...you did put me first when you helped me put that money back. I guess I knew you would. I mean, I knew you'd help me. I never really thought about what would have happened if we'd gotten caught."

"By someone other than Art, you mean."

Her lips press into a thin line. "He ever say anything to you about it?"

"Nope. You?"

"When would I have talked to Art?" Her eyes search his. "What? When you were shot? No, he never said a word."

"Don't worry," Raylan says. "He still likes you." She smiles. "So, what else did you say to yourself in the bathroom?"

"I reminded myself that you're a good man."

"I am, huh?"

"Yes," She tilts her face up. "And you're going to be a good father to this baby." She reaches up, laying a hand on his shoulder to steady herself and gives him a quick kiss, her lips soft and warm on his. Before he can react, she's turned and opened the car door, sliding inside. "I'll talk to you in the morning," she says through the open window.

He stares after her until she turns the corner and disappears.


	15. Play Ball!

_Swack!_ His swing connects with the ball and it sails into the net. _Crack_! Another swing. This one is off to the left and he adjusts his stance. It's been weeks since he's made the time to come here, but he needed an outlet tonight after Henry's prying and Winona's kiss. She _kissed_ him. _What the hell?_ He smacks the next ball too hard and it goes foul, sailing into the netting above and bouncing back down towards him. He ducks out of the way just in time.

"Sir?" He turns to see the moon-faced kid who was manning the counter when he came in. "You really need to wear a helmet. Not 'sposed to let no one in here without a helmet." He holds one out.

He glances into the cage beside him. There's a young father there with a girl of about eight or nine. She's wearing a pink batting helmet with a daisy painted on the side. Her ponytail sticks out the back. Her father stands behind her, hands over hers on the bat, helping her time her swing.

"Mister?" The teenager says again.

"Give it here," Raylan says. He jams it on his head and walks back into the cage. He looks again at the father and daughter as his finger hovers over the button that will bring another pitch. He tries to picture bringing his son here. _His son._ It takes the breath out of him. Would he be a good hitter? Would he love the game the way Raylan did as a kid? Where would they go after? For ice cream? Then home...where? To a waiting Winona? Certainly not to a two-room apartment above a college bar. He sighs. Sure, it'll be awhile before the kid is ready for the batting cages, but Winona or no Winona, maybe it's time to look for a different place to live.

-o-o-O-o-o-

He's circled three possible listings in the real estate pages and stops to take a sip from the glass on the nightstand. The bourbon burns all the way down. Picking up the cell phone, he checks for missed calls. Nothing from Johnny. The grip of worry takes hold of his mind.

Raylan considers the facts. Boyd is smart. He knows that someone called in that tip about Devil's burial place and that means someone talked. It wasn't Ava. Boyd might think it was Arlo, knowing how his mind drifts, but Raylan bets that sooner or later, Boyd is gonna figure it out.

Tossing the paper to the other side of the bed he leans back on the pillows. It's been four days since he talked to Johnny at the diner. Plenty of time for him to consider the offer Raylan made on behalf of the U.S. Marshal Service. Either Johnny's havin' second thoughts or...Raylan wonders if Boyd could've gotten to him already, one way or the other. If he doesn't call tomorrow, a trip to Harlan may be in order.

-o-o-O-o-o-

The phone buzzes close to her ear and she answers, her voice rough from sleep.

"Hello?"

"Winona? You still sleepin'? I thought you said you'd be up."

She leans up on one elbow. Sunshine is streaming through the window. "What time is it?" She asks, brushing the hair from her face.

"Seven-thirty," he says. "Sorry I woke you. You wanna call me back?"

"No, no...let's talk now." She lays back against the pillows, yawning. "I overslept. What does your day look like?"

"It's sunny at least," Raylan says. She can hear water running and then the click of a door opening and shutting. She doesn't fill the silence, that was part of Henry's instructions. Eventually Raylan goes on. "Art said something yesterday about a prisoner transfer. Probably send me and Tim." There's the sound of another door closing. He's headed to his car. "How about you?"

"I'm taking snack to Emma's preschool," she says. "Gayle has a meeting at work she can't get out of, and it's Emma's turn with the snack bucket."

"That'll be good practice for you." She can picture his crooked grin. "What's the snack?"

"Gayle made cookies. I think they're chocolate chip. I know that's your favorite. I'll save you some." She pauses. This small talk is stupid and they both know it. "Are you coming on Saturday?"

There's a sigh on the other end. She can't tell if it's an exasperated sigh or even if it's directed at her. _Don't assume anything._ Another of Henry's rules. Maybe he's just stuck in traffic.

"Yeah, I'll be there."

"Really?" She'd figured he'd make some excuse not to come. In the six years they were married he'd managed to avoid most family celebrations, not that she had been anxious to come back to Kentucky either. The one Christmas they'd come home had been a disaster and ended with Winona in tears and Raylan stiff-jawed and silent for the entire drive back to Georgia.

"You still want me to come?"

"Why wouldn't I?" More silence from Raylan's end. It's a struggle not to jump in with something else, but she waits.

"You remember those neighbors we had in Dallas, when we lived in the townhouse?"

She should be used to it by now, but his meandering thought process always surprises her. "The ones who used to have the screaming matches and then really loud make-up sex?"

"That place had very thin walls."

"It did," she says, laughing at the memory. "We could hear everything."

"You think we're like them?"

She doesn't, not at all, but she figures he's going somewhere with this. "How so?" She gets up and pulls a sweater on over her nightgown, padding down the long hall to the kitchen. Gayle's left the coffee on, and she pours a cup while she waits for him to respond.

"I dunno. Yesterday, when we were goin' at each other, it just...kinda reminded me of them."

"Are you saying you want to have wild make-up sex with me?"

There's a beat before he answers. "You're the one who kissed me."

There's an accusation in his voice and it's enough to push her tone from teasing to dismissive. "Don't make too much of it, Raylan. It was just a kiss."

"I'll try to remember that," he says.

She glances at the clock. Even with the protracted silences they've only been talking ten minutes or so. She racks her brain for something else to say. "I see the doctor again next week. Thursday, I think."

"Another sonogram?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe. They seem to do a lot of them. You want to come?"

"I'll see what the week looks like." Now he's the one being dismissive. "This talking for twenty minutes thing is bullshit." He sighs.

She agrees. She doesn't see how this forced conversation is doing anything to bring them closer. It was fine at first, now they're both irritated and defensive. Maybe they should start with five minutes and work their way up. Still, she has to admit he's making an effort. More of an effort than she expected.

"I think it's okay if we're a little short." She gives a laugh to let him off the hook and there's relief in his voice when he responds.

"Then I'll talk to you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I'll call you."

"Okay...have a good day."

"You, too."

-o-o-O-o-o-

"Tim brought doughnuts, you want one?" Art asks as he walks by Raylan's desk on the way to get coffee. "You find anything on that guy running the Harlan whorehouse?"

Lost in thought it takes his boss's words a moment to register. "Delroy Pitts?" Raylan says. "Yeah. He had a rap sheet. Nothing all that surprising. A bunch of dropped assault charges by a bunch of different women." He slides a sheet of paper across the desk.

Art sets his coffee on the desk and pulls his glasses from his pocket, hooking them over his ears and squinting at the small print. "Two weapons charges from ten years ago. He serve any time?" He bites into the doughnut. "Creme-filled. Pretty good. Sure you don't want one?"

"No, thanks. He served six months at Little Sandy. Released for good behavior and over-crowding." Raylan taps his fingers on the desk. "That's his only jail time unless he was in juvie at some point."

"Anything else?"

"I asked Sam Blackwell, one of the troopers down there to look around for him. His double-wide seems abandoned and he's two months behind on his gas, electric, and cable television bills."

"You think somethin's happened to him." Art surmises.

"Well, if it was just gas and electric...but the cable bill? Now that's a teller."

Art grins, but it fades quickly. "You really think Ava had something to do with it?"

Raylan raises an eyebrow. "Somethin's got Johnny all wired up. I know it has to do with Ava, and all of a sudden she's running whores and Delroy is nowhere to be found."

He chews the last of the doughnut thoughtfully. "Maybe Boyd got rid of him to give Ava an enterprise?"

"If it was Boyd, why wouldn't Johnny say so?"

"Good point."

"Thought I'd head down there, have a talk with Ellen May." He decides to leave out the part about checking on Johnny.

"Not today." Art strolls over to Raylan's desk, pulls a file out of the stack under his arm and hands it to him. There's a photograph clipped to the front showing a glassy-eyed man with dark brown hair and a neat goatee who looks to be in his early 30's. "Griffin Petticord," Art says. "Sex offender, statatory rape and fifty-two counts of possession of child pornography."

Raylan whistles low under his breath. "That's quite a deck of cards."

Art sits one hip on the desk. "Those are just the Kentucky charges. Tennessee wants him now. You and Tim are pickin' him up at McCreary and takin' him down to Knoxville."

"What are the charges in Tennessee?"

Art rubs his shoulder and winces. "Girl disappeared down there about a year ago. Not long before Petticord was arrested here. Officer in charge of the investigation died of a heart attack two months in...so they started over...didn't get around to Petticord until he was already incarcerated. Now they think they have enough evidence to charge him with kidnapping at least."

"Not murder?"

"Hard to prove murder unless there's a body." He continues to knead his shoulder with one hand.

"You hurt yourself?"

"Faylene got it in her head to rearrange the livin' room last night. I think I pulled a muscle pushin' the entertainment center across the room. Thing weighs a ton."

"You're gettin' too old for that shit," Raylan says with a wink. "Call me and Tim next time. When do you want us to do the transport?"

Art glances at his watch. "Leave now, and you're back by five or so...save the United States Government payin' for dinner."

"Two hours to McCreary, another ninety minutes to Knoxville, then back...s'pose they'll spring for lunch?"

"Keep your receipts."


	16. Road Trip

The prisoner transfer is uneventful. Peddicord has nothing to say. He barely acknowledges their presence and spends the entire drive staring out the window as the hills become mountains and the rugged countryside becomes the outskirts of Knoxville. Still, the quiet, constant staring is creepy after awhile. They're relieved to drop him off. They stop to eat lunch at a burger joint and watch the Reds game on the big screen.

Tim glances at the menu and sets it down. When the waitress comes they both order burgers with everything and extra fries.  
He taps his fingers on the table, his eye on the game. "That guy is one weird dude."

"Knew that just by lookin' at his rap sheet." Raylan's jaw tightens. "Kiddie porn. You ever been around a child molester before?"

Tim nods. "Couple of times. Hadta pick one up on my first day on the job. Failure to register. Arliss Buckingham. I remember his name on account of the palace...almost expected him to have an English accent. Guy looked perfectly normal."

"They usually do." Raylan takes a swallow of his beer. They've limited themselves to one, but they both believe it's impossible to eat a burger and watch baseball without a beer. They paid cash before they ordered the food since Art and Uncle Sam might not feel the same. "You know," he says. "Usually it's not too hard for me, figurin' out people's motivation for the shit they do. It's about money or power, like Quarles was, or just plain bein' stupid, like Dewey Crowe, but people like Peddicord..." Raylan shakes his head. "...they got somethin' missin' to mess with kids."

"Too much of that shit these days." Tim agrees. "Things we see..." He shakes his head, still staring at the game. The Reds have just left two runners stranded in the bottom of the eighth. "I'm never having kids." He looks over at Raylan, sees the other man's brow furrow. "Oops, sorry."

Raylan waves it off and Tim is saved from further discussion when Raylan's phone buzzes. The number is unfamiliar.

"Givens," he says. There's a momentary silence on the other end and his confusion must show. Tim raises an eyebrow questioning.

"Marshal? Ellstin Limehouse. I have that order here ready for you to pick up." The man's voice deepens and slows. Each word is being chosen carefully. "You know, the one you been waitin' for...for the marshals' get-together."

Raylan grasps the meaning immediately. Johnny Crowder. Something's up and Johnny's gone to Nobles Holler for Limehouse's protection. Raylan answers carefully. "Alright. The others are really looking forward to some of your barbeque."

Tim's other eyebrow goes up and he mouths "Limehouse?" Raylan nods.

"Will it keep overnight, or do I need to pick it up today?"

"It'll keep, I s'pect, but the sooner you pick it up the fresher it'll be."

"I'll be there as soon as I can." He clicks off the phone. "Johnny Crowder is with Limehouse. I guess that means he's taking us up on the offer of witsec."

"So we're headin' down to Harlan?"

"If you don't mind ridin' along."

"Can we get some more of that barbecue?"

Raylan laughs. "I don't see why not."

-o-o-O-o-o-

The two lane road he finds on the map winds through the mountains heading east from Knoxville in the general direction of Harlan. They've passed through a half-dozen small towns that could be Harlan; isolated, tucked into the hills with dusty run-down buildings lining one main street like you've stepped back in time. A boy stands on the stoop in front of one of the faded houses. As the car drives by he narrows his eyes, thumb and forefinger extended. Raylan reads the boy's lips in the rear view mirror. _"Bang_!" He stops at a four-way and Tim startles awake, sitting up in the seat and blinking.

"Welcome back. Did you have a nice nap?"

Tim rolls his shoulders and stretches his legs. "Want me to drive for awhile?"

"I got it. Maybe on the way back."

He peers out the window into the afternoon sun. "Where are we?"

Raylan looks around as he pulls through the intersection. "Sign a ways back said Beckett's Ridge. See if you can find it on the map."

Tim reaches into the glove box and unfolds the well-worn map, spreading it out on his lap and studying it with practiced eyes. "How long you had this thing? Was Kentucky even a state?" He runs his finger in a line from Knoxville. "Here we are, " he says, tapping the paper. "Looks like we've got at least another hour, maybe a little more. Should we call Art?"

"Tried twice already while you were nappin'." Raylan picks up the cell and tosses it back on the console. "No signal."

Tim glances at his watch. "Probably shoulda called before we left Knoxville. He'll be expecting us back by now."

Raylan grins at the younger marshal. "What? You afraid Daddy's gonna ground you for breakin' curfew?"

"I was more concerned he might take your driving privileges away."

"If Johnny helps us get Boyd Crowder, Art'll be happy enough."

Tim stares out the window for a mile or so and Raylan can almost hear the gears turning in his head. He gives him another few minutes to work it out, but he's still not talking. "What?" He says, finally. "You're thinkin' hard about somethin'. Might as well spill."

"This is a Harlan thing, right? I mean, they let us help with the arrest and all, but if it goes to trial it's gonna be in Harlan, not Lexington."

"I s'pose. Why?"

"You're always talking about how much influence Crowder has...whose to say he can't buy a jury?"

Sometimes Tim surprises him. Raylan slides his eyes sideways. "Well, then, we're gonna have to find a way to make sure he doesn't. One way or the other."

-o-o-O-o-o-

"Mr. Limehouse." Raylan runs his fingers along the brim of the hat, tipping it slightly to the older man.

"Marshal." Limehouse cocks his head and shows a flash of white teeth. He hooks a thumb over his left shoulder. "Your 'package' is in one of the cabins sleepin' it off. Showed up drunker than Cooter Brown. Bernard is watchin' over 'im."

"He say anything?"

"Naw, just asked for my help gettin' ahold-a you."

"I appreciate that."

He meets Raylan's eyes. "I hope you also appreciate that I am _done _with this business."

He slips the hat off, holding it with both hands. "I do."

"Good."

"You think Boyd Crowder appreciates that as well?"

"Be his problem, he don't." Limehouse sets a plate on the counter with two barbeque sandwiches and a huge pile of fries. "Eat up, boys."

"We just had lunch." But Tim has pulled up a stool and is picking up one of the sandwiches before the words are out of his mouth. Raylan chuckles and runs a hand through his hair. "You eat, I'm gonna go get Johnny." He looks at Limehouse. "I would take another one of those root beers if you've got one, though."

"Sure 'nuf." He pulls two bottles out of a ice box below the counter and pops the caps. "Here ya go. I'll be back in the slaughterhouse you need me 'fore you leave." He turns to go then calls back over his shoulder. "No offense, but if I don't see you back here for a long while that'd be just fine wit me."

"I'll see what I can do," Raylan says. "And if Boyd comes here, lookin' for Johnny?"

"I take care of my own, Marshal. You best not worry."

-o-o-O-o-o-

"Shit," Johnny mutters. "You think you could get your friend up there to take these curves a little slower? I'm about to embarrass myself back here."

Raylan looks over his shoulder at the man in the backseat. Johnny's face is pale and drawn and his hair is standing on end. For the first time in a long while Raylan can see a bit of Boyd in him, around the hairline and in the intensity of his eyes. There's more gray than there should be in the man's beard. Tim hits a pothole on the narrow road and Johnny's mouth twists in pain.

"Slow it down a bit," Raylan says quietly. He looks back at Johnny again. "You alright. You need us to stop? That diner is comin' up."

He shakes his head. "Stoppin' ain't gonna help. The pain'll pass. It always does."

"From the bullet?"

"Bullets." He corrects. "Four, to be exact."

Tim glances in the rearview mirror. "You ever had a real good doctor look you over?"

Johnny stares out the window. "Just 'cause it's Harlan don't mean the doctor's no good."

"Well, yeah, but," Tim takes the upcoming curve more slowly in the gathering darkness. "I mean someone used to dealing with bullet wounds. Although, considering, you'd think the docs in Harlan would be used to that."

"You got a point?"

Raylan, watching the conversation notes Johnny's eyes again, flashing dark, just like his cousin's.

"I know a guy." Tim goes on. "Army doc in Afghanistan. Good surgeon. He's at UK hospital now. We grab a beer every now and then. Maybe he'd take a look at you, see if there's anything more can be done."

"They said they did all they could. I'm stuck this way." He keeps his head turned, looking out the window into the darkness.

"Maybe," Raylan chips in his two-cents. "Maybe not. Why don't you give him a call tomorrow, Tim, see if he'd work with us."

Johnny gives a dismissive snort. "I ain't got no insurance. Who's gonna pay for some Big Dick doctor? Uncle Sam? 'Sides, he's just gonna poke and prod and I'll be right where I am now."

Raylan wonders if he's too beat down to hope for anything better. "I told you. If you help us, we'll help you."

"Ain't got much choice now," Johnny sighs. "I'm in it. Might as well get somethin' out of it."

Tim nods. "I'll make that call in the morning."


	17. Birthday Party

"Are you a real cowboy?" The little girl clings to Winona's hand and stares up at him. Winona doesn't say anything, but her lips curve upward and her eyes twinkle. Her hair is down, brushing her shoulders, and the summer dress she wears is long for her, stopping just inches above her bare feet. She always looks good to him, but there's a softness to her today and she seems relaxed in a way he hasn't seen in awhile.

He feels strangely tongue-tied. "You look pretty."

"Barefoot and pregnant?" She quips. They share a look and there's a flash of familiar heat between them.

"Do you have a horse?" Emma interrupts the moment. She's bouncing up and down now, her pigtails and the skirt of her bright yellow sundress swinging with each bounce.

"No horse. Sorry," he says.

She's obviously puzzled by his answer. "How can you be a cowboy without a horse? Cowboys always ride horses."

"Well, I drove a car today." He points to the Lincoln at the end of the drive.

Winona smooths back the little girl's hair. "He's not really a cowboy, Emma. He's a U.S. Marshal. That's like a special kind of policeman."

Raylan lifts the bottom of his t-shirt and shows her the star clipped to his belt. Her eyes widen, huge and blue like her aunt's and her mother's too, probably. Their resemblence startles him sometimes. "You want one? I can make you a Jr. Marshal."

Emma nods solemnly. "Can I have a hat, too?"

He laughs, reaching into his pocket for one of the plastic badges he grabbed from the supply closet. "I'll see what I can do about a hat. All I have is this for now." He hands her the badge and she holds onto it tightly.

She drops Winona's hand and turns to run. "I'm gonna go show Kyle!"

"Emma! What do you say to Uncle Raylan first?"

"Oh! Thank you!" She squeals. "Can I go now?"

Winona nods. "Go on."

"Uncle Raylan?" His mouth twists into a crooked grin and the corners of his eyes crinkle.

"What'd you expect her to call you? Deputy Marshal Givens?" She bumps her shoulder against him as they walk toward the house.

"Hadn't thought much about it, I guess."

The backyard is shady and inviting. A wooden fence separates it from the neighbors, but it's low enough that the other yards are clearly visible. There are red balloons here and there, tied to tables, chairs, and tree branches. A swing set dominates one end of the yard, and Emma is already swinging, braids flying out behind her. The plastic star is pinned to her dress. Near the swing set, a trampoline, surrounded by netting, is pushed into one corner. Three kids are bouncing up and down, laughing and shouting, another is waiting to climb in with the help of a thin wirey man about Raylan's height wearing a Flying Pig Marathon t-shirt, cargo shorts, and a baseball cap.

"Is that thing safe? Looks like a recipe for disaster."

Winona slides her eyes toward him, a smile spreading across her face. "This from the man who had to be reminded to leave his sidearm in the car at a child's birthday party. It's a trampoline, Raylan. The kids love it. And Peter is watching them."

His cell phone buzzes and he holds up a finger. "Hey, Tim," he says. The other marshal is holed up at a motel outside of Lexington with Johnny Crowder. Raylan will relieve him later to spend the night and what's left of the weekend. There's no sign yet that Boyd is after the man, but Johnny is too nervous to be left alone and Art doesn't want to take any chances. Raylan listens as Tim explains that his doctor friend is willing to see Johnny the following week. "Okay, thanks," he says. "I'll be there before midnight." He clicks the phone off and slides it into his pocket.

He stoops and grabs a cola out of a cooler sitting open on the stone patio. "I don't suppose there's anything stronger?"

"Daddy brought some beer, but it's in the garage refrigerator."

He raises an eyebrow. "Your daddy's here?"

She cocks her head in that way that tells him he's an idiot. "Of course, Raylan. It is his grandson's birthday."

He considers whether or not he wants a beer badly enough to face Jack Beckett. "Does he know about the baby?" He gestures at her midsection.

She barely flattens the dress with her hand and he can see the distinct outline of her obviously pregnant belly. "What do you think?"

"He know it's mine?"

"Yes, he knows."

"And...?"

She laughs, a high jingling sound of pure amusement he hasn't heard in awhile. "Honestly. You go off daily to face criminals with guns and men who'll string you upside down and beat you with a baseball bat, but you're afraid of my daddy." She laughs again. "I don't think he brought his shotgun, if that's what you're asking."

He tips his head down. "I'm not worried about him shootin' me. I could out draw him." His hand rests on his hip and his mouth curves into a grin as he stares at her from under the hat. "I'm worried about that look he gets. When we were married whenever he and I'd have a conversation I kept expectin' flames to shoot outta his eyes."

Winona shakes her head, still smiling. "Really, he always kind of liked you," she says. She takes a handful of grapes from a bowl on the table, pulling them from the stems one by one. "He never had much use for Gary." She chews her lip. "Maybe Daddy's a better judge of character than I am." She pops several grapes into her mouth then holds out her hand offering him the rest.

"Thanks." He bites into them, crisp and sweet. He looks around the table. There are bags of chips, veggies, a huge bowl of fruit, and mustard, ketchup, and buns for the burgers and hot dogs that will be cooked later on the grill. "Where's the cake?"

"Don't you know anything about birthday parties? We won't bring that out until later. With candles and singing...you know." She studies him. "Didn't you ever have a birthday party?"

"Nah, least not that I remember." Birthdays and holidays were just another invitation for Arlo to have too much to drink, and that never ended well. "Helen took me bowling for my birthday once," He offers. "I was eight or nine...I got to bring a friend and I chose Jenny McCreary from down the road. Arlo made fun of me for weeks for picking a girl."

She sighs, and he wonders if the few childhood memories he's shared with her over the years all have the same tinge of bitterness. His eyes wander as he searches his mind for anything safer. He spies something in the next door neighbor's tree and gestures so that Winona follows his gaze. "Arlo built me a treehouse one year. It wasn't for my birthday, and he wasn't much of a carpenter, but it held up for a summer or two. I liked it up there." He doesn't tell her that hidden from the world, he'd felt safe. It became his refuge whenever Arlo went on one of his rampages and Helen wasn't around. Arlo hated it when he ran away. Sometimes, if he was pretty much finished with beating Raylan's mother, he'd chase after him; calling him a goddamned little coward. Raylan remembers being dragged out of closets and out from under his bed more than once, but for whatever reason, Arlo never once came looking for him in that treehouse.

-o-o-O-o-o-

She watches him from the kitchen window. His eyes sweep the yard as if he's sizing up a situation and making a battle plan. That's probably exactly what he is doing, she thinks. He finishes the pop and tosses the can into the recycling bucket, then makes his way in that slow rolling walk of his, across the yard to where Peter stands by the trampoline. The two men greet each other and she's relieved to see that they're soon immersed in conversation. Of course, Peter's doing most of the talking, his hands gesturing wildly.

"Extolling the virtues of running, no doubt," Gayle says, coming up beside her and gazing out the window at the men. "He's obsessed."

"At least it's a healthy obsession," Winona notes.

"I'm not sure running twenty-six-point-something miles is healthy, but he seems to think so." Gayle pushes her aside with one hip to rinse out the pitcher she's holding. "Are you surprised Raylan came?"

"A little," Winona admits. "He's never been much for these things."

"I remember." Gayle grabs a towel from the counter and dries the pitcher. "You hardly ever came home to visit when you two were married."

"You know that wasn't all Raylan." Winona purses her lips. "Mama and I..."

"...were too much alike." Gayle pours fruit juice into the pitcher and adds seltzer water.

"I am _not_ like Mama!" Winona squares her shoulders and levels a gaze at her sister.

Gayle smirks. "Right." She opens the drawer and pulls out a box. "Here, put the candles on the cake for me, would you?"

Winona opens the box and fishes out the candles. "Eight and one to grow on?"

"Just like we used to get." Gayle nods. Then unable to resist, she goes on. "You're stubborn just like Mama and you have a sharp tongue."

"Oh, and you don't?" Winona arranges the candles in the center of the cake, which is round and decorated to look like a baseball glove.

"You both remind me of your Mama," Jack Beckett says, striding into the kitchen, beer in hand. "And I'm glad of that." His blue eyes sparkle as he looks at them.

He swallows the last of the beer and sets the empty bottle on the counter. "You..." he kisses Gayle's cheek. "...are practical and outspoken." She opens her mouth to protest but he shushes her. "More so than your sister here. She's stubborn though..." He kisses Winona's cheek as well, then lays a hand on her belly. "...and impulsive."

Gayle takes the beer bottle from the counter and puts it in the recycling bin under the sink. With one hand on her hip she faces her father. "What did the doctor tell you about drinking?"

"He said no more than two a day. That was one." He raises an eyebrow at Winona. "I see Raylan decided to join us. I think I'll go offer him a beer."

"Daddy..." She starts.

He winks at her. "I think it's about time he and I had a talk, don't you?"


	18. Secrets and Lies

"So what did you and Daddy talk about?"

She'd been walking him to his car when the vivid colors of the summer sunset lured them to the porch to watch. They'd been sitting here in comfortable silence until curiosity got the best of her. She's trying hard to sound casual, but he hears the question in her voice. "You mean your ears weren't burnin'?" He can't help teasing her.

"If you don't want to tell me..." She starts to push up from the step she's sitting on but he reaches for her hand and tugs, pulling her back down beside him. He keeps hold of her hand, stroking the back with his thumb.

"Why didn't you ever tell me about your mama leavin'?"

Her back stiffens and she pulls her hand away, staring off into the distance. Raylan is sure Jack is going to get an earful from his daughter about spilling that secret. "Like you tell me everything. Anyway," she shrugs. "She came back."

But you didn't know she would, he almost says. He almost tells her he knows what that's like, to wait and wonder if the person you love most in the world is ever coming back. To wonder why they left without _you_. He almost tells her about the time his mama left, ran off to Nobles Holler abandoning him to Arlo... but he doesn't. All in all, it's been a good afternoon, including his surprising conversation with Jack Beckett and he doesn't want to leave it on an unpleasant note. He thinks about Henry, tries to channel what he would say. He swallows and runs his fingers along the brim of the hat in his lap. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

Winona turns her head, surprised. Her eyes search his for a long moment. "I'm sorry you never had a birthday party." Her hand slides back into his and he squeezes. "Kyle is so excited about those Reds tickets. That was the perfect gift. How did you know?"

She's changing the subject and he doesn't mind at all. "What kid doesn't like baseball?" He says. "Besides, you've said something about watchin' his games once or twice. Art's daughter bought him season tickets but he hardly ever goes. He's always handin' 'em out. I just snagged two."

"Maybe we could go to one sometime?"

He raises an eyebrow. "You want to go to a baseball game? I seem to recall you sayin' it was like watchin' grass die when I played in that LEO league down at Glynco."

She stares down at her protruding stomach. "I think maybe I'd better learn to like it."

"Who knows? Maybe he won't want to play baseball," Raylan says. "Maybe he'll play soccer or the piano."

"Would you be okay with that?"

He shrugs. "I s'pose. If he was any good."

"Better a good pianist than a lousy baseball player?"

"He could be good at both."

"He could. He could be anything. Anything at all." She rubs her hand in slow circles on her belly. "I wish you could feel him."

"Is he movin'? Right now?"

"Yeah," she says. "Here." She takes his hand, placing it on the side of her stomach and pressing it with her own. "There. Feel that?"

At first there's nothing, then something flutters beneath his fingers, almost imperceptible, and gone just as quickly. He stares at Winona.

"You felt something, didn't you?" She beams at him. "Isn't it amaz..."

Before she gets the word out he leans in and kisses her, one hand sliding into her hair, drawing her close. Her mouth opens to his and she lays a hand on his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. He pulls back after a moment, resting his forehead against hers. He kisses her there, soft, then her cheek, and her lips again, quickly. "I gotta go."

She nods, rising, not looking him in the eye. When he pushes to his feet he puts an arm around her and she turns, burying her face against his shoulder, her breath warm on his throat.

He makes a quick decision. "I'm gonna look at some places next week. Maybe you could drive over and help me check 'em out."

She looks up at him. "Houses?"

"Well, one's a house and the rest are apartments. I can't exactly bring the baby to the place I'm livin' in now." He chuckles. "I doubt you'd even let me."

Her lips curve up. "You're probably right."

He grins, poking her with a long finger. "Probably?"

She flushes and tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. "Okay, you're totally right."

He drops his head, sliding the hat back on. "So, you wanna come with me?" Stepping off the porch he starts toward the Lincoln.

She nods walking with him. "Sure. We see Henry again on Wednesday, do you want to do it then?"

"I'll see what I can set up." They've reached the car and he fumbles in his pocket for the keys. "I had a good time," he says, and it's the truth. It wasn't the uncomfortable horror-fest he'd been imagining. Even Gayle had been cordial. "It was good to see your daddy again. Peter seems like a nice guy."

"He is."

She tilts her face up expectantly, and he bends to her with another quick kiss. "I'll call you."

"Okay. Raylan?" He turns. "I'm glad you came today."

He passes a broad hand over her belly as he slides behind the wheel. "Me, too."

-o-o-O-o-o-

The place where they have Johnny stashed is on the outside of town on one of the winding two-lane roads that run between Lexington and Frankfort. It's not the motel where Raylan lived but it's practically a twin, a long, low cement block building laid out in an 'L' shape. There are colorful plastic deck chairs outside each door, and someone made an attempt to spruce the place up with hanging baskets but they've gone brown and stringy in the heat, the faded flowers littering the ground. The parking lot is half-full of late model cars, most with scrapes, dents, and missing hubcaps. There's an old man sprawled in one of the chairs, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. His eyes are closed and he doesn't look up as Raylan parks the Lincoln, slides the hat back on, and gets out, grabbing his spare gun from the glove compartment.

He pulls the key from his pocket and unlocks the door to the room the Marshals Service rented. Johnny and Tim are lounging on separate beds watching hour six of a _Swamp People_marathon when Raylan comes in. He tosses his hat on the small round table already cluttered with Tim's things and unclips the star from his belt, adding it and his sidearm to the pile. Yawning, he perches on the corner of the bed nearest the door. Three guys on screen are yelling at each other, their accents so thick he can only make out every other word or so.

Tim's eyes don't leave the television. "That Tommy is sure a screw up."

"Yup, he is. Lazy, too." Johnny doesn't look up either. "Howdy, Raylan."

Raylan glares at Tim. "Some bodyguard you are. I coulda been anyone."

"Anyone wouldn't have had a key," Tim says, taking a sip from the bottle of beer on the nightstand. "Besides, you have a very distinctive walk. I didn't even need to look. Knew it was you as soon as I heard the footsteps." He shoots Raylan a grin.

"Whatever you say." Raylan snorts. "You can go now."

"This is almost over." He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. "Joe's gonna fire him."

"You think?" Johnny says. He sets an empty beer bottle on the floor. "Grab me another cold one outta the fridge, wouldja, Raylan?"

He sighs and gets Johnny the beer from the tiny refrigerator, snagging one for himself, too. "As long as you ain't goin' anywhere, I'm gonna take a shower." He directs his words to Tim and turns toward the bathroom, pulling his shirt off over his head.

"Holy crap!" Tim yells. "Did you see that motherfucker?" Raylan shifts his eyes to the television screen in time to see a huge alligator slide into the water after a failed attempt to bite off the front of the motor boat two guys are steering through the swamp.

"I saw 'im, alright. Betcha those guys need a change of underwear." Johnny observes.

Tim agrees. "No shit." He looks at Raylan who's still staring at spectacle on the TV screen. "Thought you were taking a shower."

An hour and two beers later Tim is still there, Raylan knows more about hunting alligators than he ever needed to, and he can almost understand what the Cajuns are saying. Now it appears that two of the guys are hunting squirrels for some kind of backwoods culinary delicacy.

"I bet you ate squirrel, huh Raylan?" Tim says.

Raylan and Johnny glance at each other and laugh. "Sure we ate squirrel," Raylan says. "Helen used to shoot 'em. She'd bring a bunch over and cook 'em up in a stew."

"My mama'd make a pot pie with 'em," Johnny said. "That was good eatin'."

Tim makes a face and a gagging noise.

"Come on. Squirrel isn't bad. You probably ate worse in Afghanistan."

"I ate goat once."

"Taste like chicken?" Raylan asks.

"Not a bit." Tim rises in one fluid motion and grabs his jacket from the chair by the door. "I'm outta here."

"Good. Thanks, Tim. I'm gonna grab that shower and hit the sack. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

He takes a long shower and pulls his jeans back on over clean boxers. He half-expects to find Johnny asleep when he comes out, but the other man is sitting at the small table shuffling a deck of cards. "You wanna play some Blackjack?" He shuffles the deck again, riffling the cards against the cheap formica.

He was looking forward to getting some sleep, but Raylan figures a few games might be a good way to get Johnny to talk "21? Sure, I could play some I guess."

They play with beer caps and quarters standing in as $5 and $10 chips and after eight hands Raylan's had blackjack twice and is up a hundred and fifty bucks.

"Well, shit," Johnny says. "You're gonna tap me out."

He raises an eyebrow. "Thought you'd have more cash than that on you." Leaning back, he stretches his legs. "I s'pose we could play for somethin' else."

A sly grin crosses Johnny's face. "If you're talkin' strip poker, you ain't my type."

Raylan snorts a laugh and reaches into the fridge for the last two beers. "I was thinkin' more about information. I win, you answer a question."

"And what if I win?"

"I'll pay cash. How's that? Fair deal?"

Johnny nods. "Sure. My luck is bound to change. Like to get some of my money back." He wins the next two hands and is mighty pleased with himself as Raylan deals. "Hell," he says, glancing at his cards. Raylan has a ten facing up and Johnny is holding a nine and an eight. He knocks on the table. "Hold."

Raylan turns up a queen. He doesn't waste any time. "What happened to Delroy Pitts?" He says, gathering up the cards and handing them to Johnny. "How'd Ava end up runnin' Audrey's?"

"That's two questions."

"I believe they may be interconnected."

Johnny tips the bottle and drinks some beer, staring at the wall behind Raylan as if a door might open and offer him an escape. "Ava, she shot him," he says.

Raylan's not surprised, not really. He wishes he were. He feels a familiar twinge of guilt at the thought that his actions set Ava on a path to Boyd and his criminal ways, but he shakes it off. He knows well enough that everyone makes their own decisions in the end. "So Delroy's dead."

"Yeah, sure he's dead. But it's not like you think, Raylan. Ava, she was defendin' Ellen Mae. Delroy'd already killed two of the girls - guess they saw something they shouldn'tve - and she came runnin' to Ava for help. You know Ava can't abide anyone abusin' a woman..."

"I'd say she made that pretty clear to all of Harlan when she shot Bowman." Raylan takes a swallow. The liquid is more bitter than it should be. "How'd it happen?"

Johnny licks his lips and looks for that invisible door again.

"If she was bein' threatened," Raylan says. "Or if she was protecting someone else..." He sets the bottle down and leans his elbows on the table looking Johnny in the eye. "I gotta know exactly how it went down."

"Ellen Mae came to Ava and told her Delroy was gonna kill her. Ava let her crash in the back and while she was passed out, Delroy called lookin' for her. Ava told him she was there and he could have her for a $2000 'finder's fee' ."

Raylan lets out a low whistle. Ava is evidently becoming quite the businesswoman. "Go on."

"When Delroy gets there, Ava drags Ellen Mae out from the back, kickin' and screamin'. Delroy hands over the money and Ava pushes Ellen Mae aside and shoots him."

"Where's the body?"

"Buried it down past Randall's Creek."

"You'll hafta show us or draw a map so we can find him." He glances at his phone, but it's past midnight, too late to call Art. He'll have to talk to him in the morning.

"What're you gonna do, Raylan? You gonna arrest Ava?" He shakes his head. "I won't testify against her. I'll give you Boyd, but not her. No way."

Raylan pushes back from the table and stands, shucking his jeans and flopping down on the bed closest to the door. "Why don't you sleep on that, Johnny? I'll do the same. If you still feel the same way in the mornin' I'll be happy to drive you back to Harlan and drop you off."


	19. Harlan, Again

There's an exasperated sigh from the other end of the phone. "You think you can get him to tell us any more or take us to the body?"

"I don't know, Art," he says. Johnny is still asleep, and Raylan honestly doesn't have any idea how the conversation is going to go when the man wakes up. He leans up against the cinder block wall of the motel and sweeps his eyes over the parking lot. The old man from last night is sprawled in the chair again. Maybe he slept there. His hair is sticking up every which way, there's a cup of coffee in his hand and the first cigarrette of the day between his lips. His eyes are open now, though, staring out at the traffic passing along the road.

Raylan drags a hand through his own disheveled hair. "Johnny's got a soft-spot for Ava, that's for sure."

"And you don't." Art snorts.

"Not anymore, I don't. She's made her own choices and if gettin' Boyd means takin' her down, too, then that's how it'll have to be. I may head down to Harlan and try to have that talk with Ellen May. Maybe she'll be free, Sunday bein' a day of rest."

"You let me know how that goes. Faylene is draggin' me to a damn auction after church today to look for an antique somethin' or other for the living room, but I'll have my cell on. Don't hesitate to call. Please," he practically whines.

"Alright then," Raylan says, chuckling. "You have fun."

There's a muttered expletive and Raylan smiles as Art disconnects. His phone buzzes before he can slip it back into his pocket. Winona.

She gets right to her point. "Why'd you kiss me like that?"

He sighs. It's too early for this. "Good morning to you, too."

"I asked you a question, Raylan."

"You didn't seem to mind."

"That was before I spent the whole night tossing and turning thinking about it."

He wishes he could see her face. Then he'd know if she was teasing or really annoyed. He decides to take a chance and go with teasing. "What? I get you all hot and bothered?"

She laughs and he relaxes, glad to have seemingly made the right call. "It doesn't take much these days. But then, it never has with you."

He pulls the plastic chair closer and eases down, stretching his legs out in front of him. His back is sore from the cheap mattress and he wonders how he put up with it for so long at the other place. "Wasn't all me," he says. "As I recall, you kissed me back."

"That's never been our problem," she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice.

"No, I guess not," he agrees. "That all you called for? To let me know you're all worked up? 'Cause I can be there in about an hour if you want."

"No," she says, sobering. "That's not why I called." She clears her throat. "I wanted to thank you again for coming yesterday. I know you don't like these family things and you and Gayle..."

"She was fine. It was a nice day. And your daddy brought beer. You can stop thankin' me."

"It just...it means a lot, Raylan."

"Okay, then, you're welcome." The silence stretches and for a moment he wonders if their connection has been broken. Then he hears her take a deep breath, so he waits.

"Daddy and I had a talk after you left. A long talk." Raylan grimaces at the thought of the dressing down Jack probably recieved from his daughter over his sharing of family secrets. He feels oddly defensive of his former father-in-law. "Winona, he only told me about your mama leavin' because he thought ..."

"I know why he told you," she interrupts. "I never made the connection. I can't believe I did the same thing not once but twice." Her voice breaks.

There's a sniffling sound and he sits up straighter in the chair. "'Nona, are you cryin'?" She doesn't answer. "Aww. Don't cry," he says, soft. "You didn't leave your kids like she did. You just left me. And I know why...mostly."

It's awhile before she speaks again, but when she does her voice is resolute. "I want to talk to Henry by myself on Wednesday, if that's okay with you. I need to sort some things out and I'm not ready to do that in front of you yet."

"You're the one who started this," he says. "If we're gonna do it, we should keep doing it together like we have been, don't you think?"

"You're not going to let me off easy, are you?" She sighs. "I figured you'd jump at the chance to not go."

"Why don't we see what Henry says. If he wants to talk to you alone, I got no problem with that."

"I've made such a mess of things."

He's not sure if she's talking to him or herself, so he falls back on familiar words. "Don't worry, we're gonna figure it out."

-o-o-O-o-o-

He pulls into the dusty parking lot behind Audrey's just after one o'clock. The only other car is a beat up faded orange Volkswagon Rabbit with one blue door. The back bumper is tied on with rope, and the side mirror hangs by a thin strip of metal. The rear window is covered with plastic secured by duct tape. He slides out of his own car and stretches as he walks toward Ellen May's trailer. Today there's no loud music echoing from inside, and he wonders if anyone's even here. He raises a fist and knocks.

The woman who opens the door is a dishwater blonde in a flimsy pink blouse, her breasts clearly visible through the sheer fabric. The heavy, sickeningly sweet smell of pot wafts out behind her. She leans in the doorway and plays with the snap at the waist of her cut-off jean shorts. "Well now, I usually don't work on Sundays but I'd make an exception for _you_." Her words are slurred and her pupils are large, almost obscuring the blue of her eyes. She reaches out, her fingers brushing the button placket on his shirt. "I'm Dixie." He takes a step back and slips the hat off, holding it by the crown.

"I'm not a customer, Ma'am." He opens his jacket with his free hand and shows her the star. "I need to speak to Ellen May."

She doesn't seem phased by law enforcement standing on her doorstep. "That's too bad, we coulda had some fun." Her eyes sweep up and down. "I bet I woulda enjoyed you." She reaches behind for a cigarrette, lights it and inhales, blowing the smoke upward. "Ellen May went in to the WalMart 'bout an hour ago. She'll be back real soon." She thrusts her hips forward suggestively. "You sure you don't wanna come inside and wait for her?"

"I got some other things to do. Why don't I stop back when I'm done. You said she'll be back soon?"

"Should be." She takes another drag. "Who should I say came calling?"

"Tell her Deputy Marshal Raylan Givens wants to have a word."

She grins at him. "Alright, Cowboy, I'll pass that along." She turns and the trailer door slams shut behind her.

-o-o-O-o-o-

He steers the car slowly down the main drag. Johnny's Bar is closed, the windows dark. Most of downtown Harlan, save for the diner, is the same. He pulls into the diner, orders a coffee to go from the harried waitress, and drives out of town, passing fields, taking the bridge over the creek, continuing until he's turning down the familiar dirt driveway. He sits in the car, sipping his coffee and staring at the house. Someone has fixed the screen door, both hinges are secure. The porch has been swept clean and there are fresh flowers on Helen's grave, but her garden has already gone wild, a tangle of varigated greenery. He can smell the mint from here.

Raylan tosses the hat on the seat and pauses for a moment with Helen before he mounts the steps to the porch. Somehow the key finds its way into his hand and he's standing in the kitchen. Like the porch, the kitchen shows a woman's touch. Ava. Everything is put away, save for the frying pan upside down in the drainer. Even with that sign of life, the house has the beginnings of the closed off musty smell of abandonment.

He moves through the rooms, running his hand along the sideboard in the dining room, straightening a picture on the wall. Arlo's worn green sweater hangs over the back of the couch. His eyes sweep the room for anything the marshals and local deputies might have missed when they came to arrest his father, but there's nothing. He climbs the stairs to the second floor. It's even mustier up here. The bedroom doors are shut, and waves of warm, stale air flood out when he opens them.

Helen's clothes still hang in the closet of the bedroom she shared with Arlo, but her scent no longer lingers. There's a ring of rust around the bathroom sink and a spider has made its home in the corner of the window looking out onto the yard. He glances under the bed. He's not sure what he's looking for. They have the gun that killed Tom Bergen, and the gun that killed Devil certainly isn't here waiting for him with Boyd's fingerprints on the trigger.

Sighing, he lifts the curtain and pulls up the shade at the window. The sun is starting it's slow dive into the west and if he wants to get back to Lexington before dark he'd better get moving.

-o-o-O-o-o-

"So," Raylan says, finishing the last bite of his ice cream cone. "When was the last time you saw Delroy?"

Ellen Mae, startles, eyes wide. She stares at him and dips her head to suck more of the milkshake up through the straw. "I dunno."

"A week ago? A month ago?"

Her grip on the almost empty paper cup tightens, denting it. "I toldja I cain't remember."

He leans his head back against the headrest and sighs. He's parked under the huge white oak behind the Dairy Bar half a mile from Audrey's. Ellen May didn't say anything while she ate her coney dog and french fries and now she's avoiding his questions, staring out the window as the ripples of late afternoon heat roll off the pavement. He's hot, tired, and feeling the beginning of indigestion from the onion rings he ate. "So who's taking care of you girls? Someone's collectin' the money if Delroy ain't. Who is it?"

"I shouldn't be talkin' to you," Ellen May says, grabbing her purse from the floor of the passenger side. "Miss Ava wouldn't want me talkin' to you. She'd get mad." A shiver of something flashes across the girl's face.

"So Ava Crowder is runnin' Audrey's?" He hopes he sounds surprised. He already has that information from Johnny, but Ellen May doesn't know that.

"_Shit! _Me and my big mouth. Now Miss Ava will really be mad."

"What happens when Miss Ava gets mad, Ellen May?"

"Nothin'. Nothin' happens." She opens the door and pushes it wider with her foot. "You don't need to take me back. I'll walk," she says, planting her feet outside the car.

He reaches across and grabs her arm. "I can keep you safe. Just tell me what happened to Delroy."

"There's no such thing as safe," she says. "Delroy got nothin' but what he deserved it. I gotta go." She pulls her arm away and he lets loose, staring at her back as she walks away from him, back to Audrey's.


	20. Scar Tissue

"Well, Mr. Crowder," the doctor says. "I'm pretty sure I can help you. There's no knowing how much until I get in there, but I'm sure I can repair the colon enough to get rid of the colostomy. I'm not sure why they chose not to reverse it once you were healed." He shakes his head. "Our Veterans' Hospitals ought to have the highest level of care this country can manage. Instead they're a refuge for incompetence."

Tim clears his throat. "Dr. Pryor here likes to beat that dead horse whenever he can."

The black man flashes a smile at Gutterson, then faces Johnny again. "He's right. My apologies."

"Can't say I disagree," Johnny says. "I'd be happy to be rid of this damn bag, that's for sure, but what about my legs?"

"Here's the problem." Dr. Pryor clicks a switch and several images appear side by side on the wide screen.

Raylan leans in for a closer look. "That buckshot?" He asks, one long finger pointing at a scattering of dark pellets along the white of Johnny's vertebrae.

The doctor nods. "There's no way to get it all. There's quite a bit of scar tissue and poking around might do more harm than good. However..." He clicks a button again and there's a smaller picture of a flat metal object about the the size of a flashdrive or iPod with wires trailing out of it. "The problem you have is nerve damage." He uses a pencil to point out several of the darker spots on the original x-ray. "These nerves are irritated and damaged. I'd like to work with our pain management guy to implant a spinal cord and peripheral nerve stimulator, which uses electric current to decrease the pain."

"How's that work?" Johnny pushes painfully to his feet for a closer look. "That thing goes inside me?"

"Yes. We'll use an epidural needle to position the wires - I'll help Dr. Fasio - he's the pain specialist - decide later how many there will be - then he'll make a small incision in your lower back or buttocks for the battery or generator. There'll be a connector wire under the skin from one to the other."

Johnny returns to his chair and Dr. Pryor sits on the edge of the desk in front of him. "If this is what you want, we can schedule the temporary stimulation for later this week."

"Temporary?"

"Yes. We do a temporary stimulation, or trial stimulation to determine if the electrical stimulation will be successful in treating your pain. We'll implant the spinal cord stimulator with a temporary lead with a battery and send you home for seven to 14 days to try it. You'll need to report back to us on how much pain relief you're getting and how well you can do things."

"Like walk?"

Dr. Pryor's white teeth flash again. "Yes, like walk."

"Pain free?" Johnny says, disbeliving.

"That's the goal."

"Could we have a minute?" Johnny asks.

The doctor shakes hands all around. "Tim's told me a lot about you, Marshal Givens," he says to Raylan. "It's good to finally meet you. Mr. Crowder, I hope you'll allow us to help you." He slaps Tim's shoulder. "Good to see you Tim-bo. Friday night at Walt's?"

"You got it."

"Tim-bo?" Raylan snickers as the door closes behind Pryor.

"Better than what some people call you."

Johnny looks up at them, both hands over his mouth, palms pressed together as if he's praying. "So...if I give you Boyd, the Marshals will give me back my legs?"

"And protection," Tim reminds him. "A whole new life, if you want it."

Johnny snorts a laugh. "I kinda like the one I got...with a few adjustments." He chews on his bottom lip. "If Boyd's gone, there's really no one to threaten me. I'd just as soon stay in Harlan."

"Really?" Raylan raises an eyebrow.

"Not all of us are as anxious to leave as you are, Raylan."

"Don't seem to matter how much I want to leave," he sighs. "I just keep gettin' dragged back into the same Harlan shit over and over again."

"Maybe you shoulda aimed better when you shot Boyd the first time." Johnny chuckles. "Woulda saved you a lot of trouble."

"Don't think that hasn't crossed my mind," Raylan says. "So what's it gonna be, Johnny? We gotta get some hard evidence if we're gonna get Boyd. We either need..." he ticks off on his fingers. "...the gun that killed Devil, Delroy Pitts body, Ellen May's cooperation, or all three."

Johnny closes his eyes. "Boyd threw the gun down a mine shaft 'bout half a mile from where they found Devil's body. Least that's what he said. I can't help you with Ellen May."

Tim's phone chimes and he goes to the hall to answer it. Raylan can see him pacing through the small square of glass in the door. He turns his attention back to Johnny.

"And Delroy?"

"I toldja. He's at Randall's creek."

"That's a big place, can you be more specific?"

"Nope, but I can show you."

Tim comes back in just in time to hear Johnny's answer. His brow furrows. "You think it's safe taking him back there?"

Raylan lays a hand on his hip and stares down at Johnny. "What made you run to Limehouse? He should've asked him this before. "Boyd say somethin' that made you think he's suspicious?"

The other man shrugs. "Not really. But I was gettin' more and more nervous and you know Boyd reads people like no one else. 'Cept maybe you."

"How's he gonna read you disappearin'?"

"I 'let slip' to Ava that I might go visit an Army buddy, but I didn't give her no name."

"Smart," Tim says. "I'm impressed."

"Good," Raylan says. "You can express your admiration while you take him back to the motel. I've got someplace to be."

-o-o-O-o-o-

Winona flips down the sun visor and snorts in disgust. "I can't go see those places looking like this. I've got mascara all over my face."

"There's kleenex in the glove box," Raylan says.

She reaches in and pulls several tissues out of the pack, dabbing at her eyes. "I'm sorry." She isn't sure whether she's apologizing for monopolizing their whole session with Henry, letting her emotions get the better of her, or arguing with Raylan when he suggested they ride together and come back for her car later. Honestly she'd wanted some space after an hour of baring her soul, but still, here she sits. She sees him sneak a sideways glance at her as he pulls out into afternoon traffic. There's sympathy in his gaze. He'd dropped the bombshell about his mother running off and leaving him with Arlo at the end of the hour, when there was no time for discussion, but if he thought she would wait until next time to bring it up, he was wrong.

"Why didn't you tell me the other day about your mama leaving too?"

"Why didn't you ever tell me about yours?" He counters.

She doesn't have an answer. Sighing, she leans her head back against the seat. "You ever wish we could start over?"

A grin curls one corner of his mouth. "Thought we tried that."

"That's not what I mean...I mean...oh crap..." she folds her hands across her belly and stares out the window. "I don't know what I mean."

"You mean start over as in, 'Nice to meet you, my name's Raylan'?"

She swivels in the seat to face him, wincing as the seatbelt rubs uncomfortably. "Yes."

"It's a little late for that, don't you think?" He turns onto a busy side street and glances at the paper on the dash.

"If we could though, would you do anything differently?"

"I'd like to think so," he says, pulling to a stop in front of a neat, two story, brick apartment building. "But maybe not." He unbuckles his belt and reaches across, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Maybe we'd both make the same damn mistakes all over again. Maybe it's just who we are."

"You don't think we can change?" His hand is resting on the seat between them now, and she covers it with her own, searching his face for an answer.

He sighs. "This conversation sounds familiar." He turns his palm up, squeezing her fingers gently. "Let's go look at this place, okay?"

"Okay."

-o-o-O-o-o-

Ten minutes later they slide back into the car, laughing. "Well," Winona observes. "You would've definitely been the youngest tenant."

"There ought to have been something in the ad about it bein' a retirement complex," Raylan grumbles. "There wasn't anything in the paper that said '55 and over'."

"It was nice of her to say you could come back in a few years." Winona giggles and grabs the paper off the dash. There are five addresses listed in Raylan's barely legible scrawl. "The next one isn't too far. Is that the house?"

"No, that's another apartment. The realtor has to meet us at the house and she wasn't free until 4:30."

The second apartment looks trashy enough from the street that they don't even go in. Winona nixes the third one, an older home divided into apartments with a steep, narrow staircase leading to the available one on the top floor. "You'd never get a baby and all his stuff up those steps," she says. "And that paint is so old it's probably lead based." Raylan shoots her a questioning look. "You have to consider these things, Raylan."

He runs his fingers along the brim of his hat and gives her a little bow. "Yes, ma'am."

She swats at him and reads off the next address. This apartment is a bit more promising. It's on the first floor and the kitchen is small, but bright and sunny, with a window looking out onto a yard shared by the four units in the building. There are two bedrooms, a tiny bathroom, and a large living room. It's still small and a little tacky to her thinking, but she can tell Raylan is already tired of looking and ready to snatch it up. She speaks before he has a chance. "This is nice," she tells the landlady. "But we have a couple others to look at. We'll let you know."

He leans in as they walk down the hall behind the heavyset woman. "What's wrong with this one? It's in a nice neighborhood. It's clean. And none of that paint you were worryin' about."

She smiles. "It was good of you to ask her that. It's awfully cramped, is all. Babies grow pretty quickly. When he starts walking you might want a little more room."

"Or not," he smirks. "At least I wouldn't have that far to chase him."

Raylan takes the next side street and winds through a development not far from Winona's old house. The neighborhood doesn't seem his type and she says so.

"I'm just takin' a short cut." He turns out onto another road and again into an older neighborhood. The houses are smaller, closer together, and the trees are larger, giving the whole place a cool, shady feel. There's a bright red sports car in a driveway up ahead. As they pull up, a well-dressed woman gets out of the car.

"Oh, shit," Winona says, ducking her head down and letting her hair fall over her face. "That's Wendi Rainier. I know her. She used to work with Gary before she opened her own office."

"So?"

She gestures helplessly at her belly. To her dismay, Raylan laughs.

"So what? Let her think whatever she wants. She's probably much too polite to ask questions."

"You don't know Wendi," Winona mutters. She swipes her lip gloss across her mouth and slides out of the car, smoothing her dress. Raylan surprises her, coming up beside her and taking her hand as Wendi approaches.

"Leave it to me," he says in her ear.

"Are you Mr. Givens?" Wendi says, approaching with her hand extended and a big fake smile. As she gets closer she squints. "Winona? Winona Hawkins?"

"Ms. Ranier," Raylan says, taking the offered hand. Wendi continues to gape at Winona.

"Hi, Wendi," Winona says, holding out the hand that isn't clutching Raylan's.

Wendi, obviously flustered, looks from one to the other. Settling on Winona, her eyes turn sympathetic. "I was so sorry to hear about Gary."

"It's still quite upsetting for her," Raylan says. "As you can imagine. Finding out about Gary's - proclivities - was shocking enough, but then to have him murdered because of it, well..."

Wendi stares at him, eyes wide. "Proclivities?"

"Winona here never suspected." Raylan shakes his head then lowers his voice. "Me now, I always thought he was a little..." He shrugs and tips his free hand in the air with a see saw motion.

Winona lowers her head and squeezes Raylan's hand hard enough to make him flinch. What the _hell_ is he doing?

"Well, that certainly explains why he was invited to all the mayor's parties." Wendi gives a nervous laugh and shifts into professional mode. "Why don't we take a look at this house. I think you're really going to like it and in this housing market the owners are willing to do a rental or purchase agreement. It really is all about the buyer right now." She jabbers on, but it might as well be the buzz of mosquitos in Winona's ears.

-o-o-O-o-o

"I liked it," Raylan says, opening his door and sliding in behind the wheel. "Didn't you? You didn't say much."

She levels her gaze at him. "I was stunned speechless by you insinuating to that woman that Gary was gay," Winona fumes.

"I never _said_ he was gay." His lips twitch and she can tell he's holding back a chuckle. "Maybe I was implyin' he was shifty and unscrupulous."

"I said you _insinuated_ it." She pulls the seat belt across and angrily locks it in. "And you made me look like a fool for not knowing."

Now he does chuckle. "Which bothered you more?"

"That's not fair, Raylan."

He slips the hat back on and a lopsided grin slides across his mouth. "If she noticed you were pregnant she didn't say anything, did she?"

"Well, no, but..."

"And that's what you were worried about, isn't it? Your reputation?"

She avoids the question. It's not about her reputation, not really. "But now she thinks Gary is...was..." Her voice sputters out in a puff of air.

"But Gary doesn't care, does he?" He turns his head to guide the Lincoln out of the narrow driveway.

"No, I guess he doesn't." A wave of sadness hits her, as it does sometimes when she forgets for a moment that Gary - sweet, bumbling, optimistic Gary - would have seen her dead, and Raylan, too. Raylan must sense her mixed emotions, because his hand slips from the wheel and once again finds hers.


	21. Bring Up the Bodies

Johnny eases out of the passenger seat, unfolding himself gingerly, as if he expects the pain to halt his movements at any moment. But he stretches to his full height and walks around as the other men watch.

"Electrodes in his back, eh? Amazing what modern medicine can do." Art says to Raylan.

Raylan nods as he opens the trunk. "Yeah, it's really something." He takes out a vest and a jacket with U.S. Marshals stenciled on the back, handing them both to Johnny. "Here, put these on."

Art reaches in and grabs another and shoves it at Raylan. "You, too."

Raylan rolls his eyes at, but slips the vest on over his shirt. He eyes the empty trunk and then his boss. "What about you?"

"I'm gonna be right here with the evidence van, not out in the middle of an open field waitin' for some pissed off hillbilly to use me as target practice.

"It'll probably be fine. Boyd's truck was at the bar. Anyway, he's still figurin' on us going after him for Devil somehow. He's got no reason to think we'd be out here."

Johnny shrugs into the vest and Raylan shows him how to secure it, then holds the jacket so he can slip his arms in. "This is amazin', Raylan," Johnny says. "I got almost no pain. Least not compared to what it was. Hell, I feel like I could run the bases." He grins wide under the ball cap jammed on his head and Raylan can't help but smile back at seeing him whole again. Maybe some good will come out of all this in the end.

The evidence van pulls up behind the Lincoln and Raylan motions to the driver to stay put. He turns back to Johnny. "You ready to show us where Delroy is?"

-o-o-O-o-o-

Raylan crosses his arms, leans back against the Lincoln and watches as the evidence team loads the earthly remains of Delroy Pitts into the wagon.

"That looked like a pretty good sized hole in his chest even before the animals got to him. Ava used her shot gun again, I presume?" Art's standing against the car in pretty much the same position, except his elbow rests on his arm and his chin is cupped in his hand. He turns his head to address Johnny. "She dump the shotgun?"

"That I couldn't tell you." Johnny is sitting in the front seat, sideways with his legs outside the car. He shifts a wad of tobacco to his other cheek and spits. "There's a plethora of shotguns in that bar."

"A plethora?" Raylan shakes his head and grins. "You been hangin' 'round Boyd so long you've picked up on his vocab-u-lary?"

"Crowder does like to use big words just for the sake of usin' 'em, don't he?" Art says, his forehead wrinkles as if he's making this observation for the first time and Raylan laughs outright.

"So whatcha gonna do now?" Johnny asks. "Go arrest Ava?"

"Nope. Just gonna ask her a few questions." He pulls the keys from his pocket, running his fingers over the pieces of metal until he feels the familiar shape of the car key and picks it from the others. "Art'll give you a ride back to Lexington with the tech guys. You can hang around the office and annoy Tim until I get back. Oh, and Johnny?" Raylan says, as he opens the driver's door and slides behind the wheel. "Thanks."

-o-o-O-o-o-

Boyd's truck is gone when he pulls into to the bar parking lot. Even though he thinks it's highly unlikely that Boyd has gone after Johnny, he makes a quick call to Art, giving him a heads-up and a description of Boyd's truck. That done, he slips back into his jacket and sets the hat on straight. Two guys sitting at a table near the door look up when he walks in. Ava is at the bar, her back to him, head bent over an open book, pen in her hand. "You an accountant now, too?"

"Why Raylan," Ava drawls. "What brings you down to Harlan?" She shuts the book and rises from the stool, sliding behind the bar. "Get you a drink?" She holds up a bottle of Maker's Mark, tilting the bottle back and forth.

He shakes his head. "No thanks, not today. I'm lookin' for someone."

"Boyd ain't here." She smiles and for an instant he's reminded of the old Ava, the one who wouldn't have anything to do with Boyd Crowder.

"Now Ava, if I was lookin' for Boyd don't you think I'da said so?"

She shrugs. "Never know. You're a crafty one."

"Crafty, eh?" He grins, despite himself, slips off his hat and leans an elbow on the bar. "I'm lookin' for the guy who runs the girls over at Audrey's; Delroy Pitts. You know him?

Ava shrugs again. "Sure I know him. Everyone knows him. Haven't seen him for awhile though." She pours herself a drink and takes a long swallow. "Mmmm. You sure you don't want one?"

"I'm sure. Thing is," he says, focusing in on her. "I heard a rumor you're trying your hand at runnin' the whores."

"You heard a rumor, huh? Clear over in Lexington?"

It looks like Ava's hand trembles slightly as she raises the glass and takes another sip. He runs his tongue under his bottom lip. "That I did."

She sets down her glass and leans on the bar in front of him, so close that he can smell the perfume she always wears. "Suppose now, that one of those girls came to me because no one was takin' care of them? Maybe someone was even abusin' them. Don't you think it would be right to help them out? As a kindness?"

"A kindness?" Raylan snorts. "They do all the work and you take half - or more - of the money? That kind of kindness?"

"I like to think of it as a management fee."

Something in Ava's proximity sets off warning signals in his brain and Raylan straightens, picking up the hat and running his fingers along the brim before placing it back on his head. "Still doesn't explain why no one's seen Delroy."

"Why're the Marshals lookin' for him?"

"I didn't say they were."

"Why're you lookin' for him, then?"

"I need to ask him a few questions, that's all, but I guess you can't help me." He takes a backwards step toward the door and Ava comes around from behind the bar. "Nice to see you, Ava."

"You too, Raylan." She waits until he's almost out of the door before she adds "You take care, now."

-o-o-O-o-o-

When he gets back to the office, Art, Tim, and Johnny are huddled around the table in the conference room. There's two buckets of spicy fried chicken and a pile of bones on a paper plate in the center of the table and they're all still eating. He tosses the hat on his desk and leans in the door frame watching them.

"Pull up a chair, Raylan. There's plenty," Art mumbles the invite through a mouthful of chicken leg.

Tim swipes at his mouth with a napkin and rattles the ice in the styrofoam cup before draining it. "It's not as good as Limehouse's barbecue, but it'll do."

"I'm stuffed. Can't eat another bite." Johnny crumples his napkin and tosses it in a perfect arc into the trash can.

"There's potato salad, too," Art says, pointing to the plastic container. "Eat somethin; wouldja? You're too skinny."

Johnny barks a laugh. "Always has been a rail. Just like his daddy."

Art chokes on a forkful of potato salad and Tim stops with a chicken leg half way to his mouth.

Raylan's jaw tightens, but Rachel's voice from the doorway saves Johnny from a verbal dressing down for pointing out the similarity to Arlo.

"There's a call for you," she says, handing him the phone.

"Who is it?"

Rachel shrugs. "He didn't say and I didn't ask. He sounds upset," she warns.

He blows out a breath and takes the phone. "Givens." He feels the blood drain from his face as he listens to the caller.

"Raylan, you okay?" His boss asks. There's concern in his eyes and Raylan can't hold the gaze.

He clutches the phone as Peter's voice fades. Backing out of the conference room, he grabs the keys and hat off the desk. "I gotta go." His voice comes out in a squeak and Art pushes back from the table, looking at him.

"What's going on?"

He drops his head, shaking it from side to side. "There's been an accident. I gotta get over to Louisville."

"An accident? Is it Winona?"

All Raylan can do is nod.

"She okay? What about the baby?"

"I don't know, Art," he says. "Peter just said she and Gayle were in an accident. I gotta go."

Tim and Rachel are staring now too, and being the focus of everyone's attention, everyone's unspoken sympathy at whatever the hell shitstorm has hit him this time is just too much. He turns heel and gives them his back as he pushes out the door.

Art is right behind him. "You call." He hollers out into the hallway. "You hear me Raylan? You let us know what's going on."

The elevator door closes and he's blissfully alone.


	22. Food for Thought

The last time he felt anything close to this level of panic he was hanging upside down desperately trying to figure out how to dodge the next swing of Dickie Bennett's bat. He weaves in and out of the late-afternoon traffic, eyes darting to the rear view mirror, alert for any sign of a watchful trooper or zealous county deputy manning a speed trap. He's tried Winona's cell phone twice but there's no answer. Gayle doesn't answer hers, either and he doesn't have Peter's number.

He can't let himself to think too much about Winona or the baby or what he might find when he gets to Louisville, but apparently he can only block out one thing at a time, because his mind is filled with Helen. It's as if she's right there in the car with him. He can practically smell the cigarette smoke. He wonders if she knew how much she meant to him. It's not like he ever_ told_ her. Of course, she never told him, either - the Givens aren't much for 'I love you's' - yet he knew. He knew because she _showed _him; she saved him. And what did he show her? He ignored her pleas to get out of Harlan and leave the Bennetts alone. Maybe if he'da done what she wanted...? His knuckles are white on the steering wheel and he forces himself to loosen his grip and ease up on the accelerator. He shakes his head to clear it and rolls down the window. The late afternoon air is hot and carries the acrid smell of car exhaust mixed with tar. Combined with the spectral scent of Helen's cigarette it makes him nauseous.

It feels as if the ninety minute trip takes hours. By the time he pulls up to the Emergency room entrance his shirt is soaked through with sweat. He puts his jacket back on to cover it and pulls out his Marshal's star as he strides through the automatic doors. Slapping it down on the desk he looks into the startled eyes of the nurse covering the desk. "I need to see Winona..." He stops. What name would she use? He goes with the name that would still be on her license. "Winona Hawkins?"

"I'm sorry, Sir...I can't..." the young woman stammers.

"Raylan!" Peter calls his name as he emerges from the hallway behind the desk. "She's right back here." He takes him by the elbow, steering him past the desk and around an empty gurney, talking non-stop the whole time. "They're all gonna be fine. Emma doesn't even have a scratch. My mom already came to get her. Some asshole on his cellphone rear-ended Gayle at a traffic light and pushed them out into the intersection. Another car broadsided the van. Luckily no one was going very fast." He pauses to take a breath, but before Raylan can slip in any of the questions he needs to ask, Peter is off again. "They're gonna be fine," he repeats. "Gayle was complaining about her neck hurting so they took her for a CT scan to make sure there's no problem." He guides Raylan around a corner and pushes on a pair of double doors. There's a tremor in his hand as he points to a curtained off area. "Winona's right in there." He lays a hand on Raylan's shoulder. "They're all gonna be fine." Raylan wonders who he's trying to convince.

Leaving the other man to pace anxiously in the hallway, Raylan pulls back the curtain. Winona's head turns and the first thing he sees is the bruise swelling above her eye. Then her eyes lock on his, wide and scared, and everything else, all the arguments, all his frustration, vanishes and she's just the woman he loves. The woman he's always going to love, baby or no baby. He swallows the lump of cement in his throat and goes to her side, sinking into the chair by the bed. His legs feel like butter. Her hand snakes through the bed rails and finds his, squeezing hard as a single tear trails down her cheek.

This intimacy is interrupted before either of them find a voice. A doctor in scrubs and a wrinkled white lab coat comes in, pushing an ultrasound machine. "Everything looks fine, but I know you'll feel better if you see for yourself." He flashes an encouraging smile. "I'm Dr. Kahn. You must be the husband." Neither of them affirm or deny the doctor's assumption. "She's got a nasty bump on her head, and that right shoulder is going to be sore, but other than that I think we're good. She had her seatbelt on." He pats Winona's arm. "You're a smart lady. A lot of pregnant women don't wear them because they're uncomfortable."

Winona clears her throat. "I always wear my seatbelt."

She looks to Raylan for confirmation and he nods. "She's good about that."

"Let's take a look at your little guy," the doctor says. "You did say it's a boy, right?"

He pulls down the blanket and Winona shifts on the bed to lift her shirt. "Yes, it's a boy." She gives Raylan's hand a squeeze.

"And you're how far along?"

"Twenty-eight weeks." Another squeeze.

After making some adjustments to the machine and depositing a squirt of sticky gel on Winona's belly, the screen comes on and the comforting _whoosh thumpa whoosh _of the baby's heartbeat fills the small room. "There. See, I told you he was fine."

Winona sniffles, blinking back more tears, her fingernails digging painfully into Raylan's hand. He squeezes back, staring at the screen, not quite believing the doctor's words.

After handing Winona a towel to wipe off the gel, the young doctor takes a pad of paper from the pocket of the lab coat and pats around the other pockets searching for a pen. He chuckles at himself when he finds it tucked behind his ear. "My girlfriend says I'd lose my head if it wasn't attached. Who'd you say your doctor was?"

"Dr. Delano," Winona says. She pulls her shirt down and tugs the blanket back up around her, resting her hand protectively on her belly.

"Okay, I'm going to go give her a call, let her know what's happened. She may want us to keep you overnight for observation, that's not unusual, so don't worry if she does. I'll be right back."

-o-o-O-o-o-

Raylan's eyes follow the doctor out of the room then settle back on her. He leans forward, pressing his lips to her forehead, just beside the bruise. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine, Raylan. And you just heard the doctor, Jiffy Pop is okay, too." That earns her a half smile. "How's Gayle? Did you talk to Peter?"

"Gayle's having a CT scan, but Peter told me she's gonna be alright. You wanna tell me what happened?"

"We were stopped for a light and some idiot plowed into the back of us pretty hard. It pushed us into the intersection and another car hit us on her side. The driver couldn't help it. She felt terrible." She touches the bump and winces. "I think I hit my head on the window."

His fingers slip under the collar of her shirt, lifting it so he can see the skin. "You're gonna have a nasty seat-belt bruise, too."

She traces the diagonal line of the shoulder harness with her fingers, pressing gently. "Ow. You're right. It hurts already."

"But not here?" Raylan runs his hand under the bulge of baby where the lap belt would cross.

"No. Just my shoulder." She grabs his hand and places it over the baby. He spreads his fingers wide. "You heard the heartbeat. He's fine. I know it. I'd know if something was wrong."

He lets out a long breath and rests his forehead on the cool metal of the bedrail. "Peter didn't tell me much on the phone and when you didn't answer yours...I thought..."

"I know." She lays a hand on his head, stroking his hair. He doesn't pull away.

"Is that the way you felt, driving down to Harlan that day?" He keeps his head down, not looking at her.

"Yes." She keeps running her fingers through his hair. There's a lot of gray mixed in with the brown, and she wonders why she hasn't noticed it until now. "I feel a little bit of it every time you walk out the door."

Now he pulls back, rubbing his hands over his face. His hair is sticking up all over his head and only the dark expression in his eyes keeps her from laughing at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She flops back, staring up at the ceiling and let's the silence stretch between them. "Raylan," she says after a few minutes. "Are you going to worry now every time I get in a car?"

His brow furrows in that way that lets her know he thinks her question is odd. "Not every time, no, but..."

"Why not? Cars are dangerous, right? I could get hurt or something could happen to the baby."

"But you're careful," he says. "You're a good driver, you wear your seatbelt..." He stops when he realizes where this is going, his lips pressing into a thin line. "That's not a good comparison. It's not the same thing at all. My job is..."

She interrupts. "Dangerous, I know. So is driving. How many people are killed every day in car accidents? More than there are cops shot, that's for sure."

"And your point is?"

"You think I hate your job, but I knew what you did when I married you, and I knew what you did when we started up again." She shakes her head at her own foolishness. "I knew we weren't going back to Glynco. I don't hate your job. Believe it or not, I'm proud of what you do."

"You sure as hell got a funny way of showing it," he snorts.

She lets him have that point. "What I do hate," she says. "Is what your job does to you." She sits up and moves the pillow around to support her back. She turns to look at him. "It makes you forget that there are people who need you to stay safe..." His mouth opens to interrupt but she shushes him with a finger. "People who need you to stay _as safe as possible._ You know _how_ to do that, you just _choose_ not to." He's looking past her, as if the _Employees Must Wash Their Hands _sign on the wall next to the sink is suddenly enthralling. "What if you knew I wasn't careful; that I never wore my seat belt or that I texted while I was driving? How would you feel then?"

"I get it." He sighs, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "I get it. It's not like Art hasn't said the same thing." Then he meets her eyes. "I wore a vest today, dammit."

"Good for you."

The curtain opens and an unfamiliar nurse comes in. "Dr. Kahn got called into another emergency, but he wanted me to tell you that Dr. Delano said you could go home. She wants you to take it easy for a few days." She hands Winona a stapled stack of papers and points to the top sheet. "If you have any of these symptoms or any questions call her right away, or come back here, okay?"

Winona nods.

The nurse drops the bed rail and folds the blanket back. "Let me get a wheelchair and we'll get you out of here."

"I don't need a wh..." Winona starts to protest, but Raylan breaks in.

"Thanks," he says, shooting the nurse a grin.

She returns the smile. "Be right back."

"I can walk out on my own," Winona pouts, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

"Dr. Delano said to take it easy and that's what you're gonna do."

"She didn't say I couldn't walk, Raylan."

The curtain opens again and they look up, expecting to see the nurse with the wheel chair, but it's Peter. He looks about to drop and Raylan stands, offering him the chair. He lowers himself into it, resting his palms on his knees. "They're going to keep Gayle, overnight at least. The CT showed a dislocation in her neck and they've got her in one of those collars. The orthopedic doc is going to see her in the morning." He runs a hand through his thinning hair. "If it's okay with you," he says to Winona, "I'm going to stay here with her. Mom's got Emma and Kyle doesn't need picked up from boy scout camp until tomorrow night."

"It's fine, Peter. You should stay. Can I see her before I go?"

Peter shakes his head. "It might be awhile. They took her for an MRI. Just a precaution. Glad we have good insurance."

The nurse comes back with the chair and Raylan and Peter move at the same time to help Winona. She brushes them both away. "I'm not an invalid," she mutters through clenched jaws.

"Thanks for callin' me." Raylan holds out a hand to Peter, who shakes it.

"Of course."

Peter stoops to kiss Winona's cheek. "We're so glad you and that baby are okay."

Winona chews on her bottom lip. "Call when she gets in a room. I want to talk to her."

"I will. She'll want to talk to you, too."

-o-o-O-o-o-

Raylan slides behind the wheel and looks over at Winona. Her seatbelt is already fastened. He puts one hand over hers, leans in and kisses her soft, on the mouth. "Thank you for protecting yourself and Jiffy Pop." He pulls back and looks into her eyes. "I promise I'll think about what you said in there."

She lays a hand on his cheek and kisses him back. "Okay," she says. Then her nose wrinkles. "Eww. Raylan, you stink."

He sniffs, realizing she's right. "Sorry, it's been a long day."

"You need to take a shower when we get to Gayle's. Peter has a drawer full of race t-shirts, I'm sure one will fit you."

"You askin' me to stay'?"

She grins at him "How can I 'take it easy' without someone to wait on me hand and foot?"

He chuckles as he pulls out of the hospital parking lot. "Alright, then. Let's get you home."

"Can we stop and get take-out on the way? I'm starving."


	23. Delayed Reaction

"Shit!" Raylan sits up abruptly, pushing Winona's feet off his lap and scattering the empty Chinese take-out boxes on the coffee table as he grabs for his jacket. Startled, she looks up at him. "I forgot to call Art," he says. Pulling the cell phone out of the jacket pocket, he powers it on. The voicemail light is flashing. He pushes in the code and the electronic voice chirps. "_You have four unheard messages_." All the messages are from his boss, each one more anxious than the last. Winona returns her gaze to the television as he punches in his number and paces the living room waiting for Art to pick up.

"Is everything alright?" Art demands without preliminaries.

Raylan runs a hand through his hair as he walks back across the living room. "Yeah, yeah, I'm sorry I didn't call. Winona's fine, the baby's fine."

There's a relieved sigh. "And you didn't call because?" He says, his voice tinged with annoyance.

"I'm sorry, I just forgot. They did a sonogram and then we waited and they let her go home and she was hungry and then she wanted to watch..." He puts his hand over the phone and turns to Winona. "What're we watching?"

"I'm watching _So You Think You Can Dance_," Winona says, not taking her eyes from the screen. "You were sleeping."

"I heard," Art chuckles. "I'm glad everything is okay. Gayle's alright, too?"

"She will be. Sounds like she's got some whiplash goin' on -they were rear-ended - so the hospital kept her overnight to see the orthopedic guy in the morning."

"So you're stayin' to babysit Winona?"

Raylan continues to pace the living room, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the phone to his ear. Peter's borrowed t-shirt is tight and he rolls his shoulders trying to stretch it a bit. "Yeah, they called her doc and she wants her to take it easy for a few days until her next appointment."

"Why don't you take tomorrow off?" Art says.

He glances back at Winona, curled on one end of the couch. The bruise on her temple is still swelling, despite the ice pack they applied as soon as they got home. "I think I will."

Raylan hears several clunking sounds as if the phone is knocking against something and then the high-pitched whine Art's hearing aid makes when he adjusts it. "Could you repeat that?" His boss asks. "I think there's somethin' wrong with my phone."

"Thanks, Art, I think I will take tomorrow off." Winona looks up at him, eyebrow raised in a question. He holds up a finger.

"Well, good. You're welcome. God knows you've got more unused vacation days than anyone else in this office. Hell, take two."

"I would, but I don't want to leave this thing hangin' with Johnny."

"Never got a chance to ask you, how'd that talk with Ava go?"

On the screen they're talking now, rather than dancing, and Winona turns up the volume. He gets the hint, taking his conversation into the kitchen. "'Bout like I expected." He opens the refrigerator and grabs one of the beers he picked up when they stopped for the food. Popping the cap he takes a long draw. "I think I mighta spooked her a bit, though."

"I been lookin' this file over and with the body and Johnny's word, I think we should go for a search warrant on the rifle that shot Delroy. Let's see if you're idea about Boyd protectin' her pans out."

Raylan leans his hip against the counter and takes another sip from the bottle. "You don't think it's too soon?"

"What're you waitin' for? It doesn't look like he's gonna come after Johnny. It's been what - over a week - and it's like he don't even know he's gone."

"Johnny did tell that story about visitin' an Army buddy."

"You surprised Boyd'd believe that?"

"A little," Raylan admits. He finishes his beer and tosses the bottle in the green recycling tub under the sink. Grabbing another one from the fridge he sits in a kitchen chair, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. "Seems like Boyd is either off his game or playin' us."

Art snorts. "Wanna take bets on which one?"

"Knowin' Boyd, I'd say he was playin' us, but it doesn't feel like that. Feels like maybe he's just not payin' attention. Maybe there's somethin' else goin' on we don't know about." He picks at the label on the beer bottle, making a sticky pile of paper on the table.

"Well, we do know where he was yesterday when you were talkin' to Ava."

"We do?"

"Yeah, didn't get a chance to tell you that either." Art sighs. "He was down at the county lock-up."

"Visitin' Arlo?" Raylan says. Art's silence is all the answer he needs. "Shit. Probably tryin' to figure out how to have the old man take the fall for Delroy, too."

"Now you look here Raylan," Art says. "I know this is already about as personal as it gets for you and I don't want it gettin' any worse. It gets too personal and you can't do your job; not the way you should. Not the way I need you to."

"Art.." Raylan starts to protest.

"That's why I'm takin' you off the Harlan end of this. When we do get this search warrant, I'm sendin' Rachel and Tim down there to execute it. Maybe as soon as tomorrow. You got us Johnny, and I'm keepin' you in charge of that on this end. But you let the rest of us worry about Crowder."

"You gotta be kiddin' me, Art."

"Nope, I am not." Art's tone is flat and final. "You sleep tight, now. Take good care of Winona and tell her Faylene and I said we're real glad she's okay. I'll see you in a couple of days. Good night, Raylan." He clicks off before Raylan can argue.

"Well, shit," he says to the empty kitchen.

-o-o-O-o-o-

Raylan is sitting with his back to her, rocking the empty beer bottle back and forth in front of him. He startles when she opens the freezer door and it takes a moment for his eyes to focus on her. "You cannot possibly be hungry." He raises an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You ate two egg rolls and an entire carton of cashew chicken an hour ago."

"I know," she says. "I can't believe it myself but here I am. Ooooh," she squeals. "There's ice cream." She pulls the container out of the fridge and holds it up so he can see. "Dark Chocolate Raspberry Almond Crunch."

"What's wrong with vanilla?" He squints at the carton. "And that's not ice cream, it's frozen yogurt."

"Then it's probably healthier," Winona says. "Peter likes to try new flavors. Some of them are strange, but this sounds good." She opens the cupboard and takes out a bowl. "Do you want some?" She turns toward him.

"I'll just eat some of yours." He smiles again, the same crooked smile that drew her in all those years ago. There's a flutter, low in her belly, that has nothing to do with this baby and everything to do with his father.

She scoops ice cream out of the carton until the bowl is full and gets two spoons out of the drawer. "Try it, Raylan. Sometimes it's good to change things up." She hands him a spoon.

"I like vanilla," he says. But he takes the spoon and digs into the bowl, turning it upside down to lick the creamy concoction off.

She takes a spoonful herself and watches him as he takes another bite. "See, I told you it was probably good."

"Not bad," he admits, dipping the spoon in again. "Why don't you sit down. You're supposed to take it easy, remember?"

She twirls the spoon around the bowl and licks it, plopping down in the chair across from him and setting the bowl between them. Propping her elbows on the table she, rests her chin in her hands.

"Art says hello," he tells her. "He and Faylene are glad you're okay."

She studies him as he steals another spoonful. "Did I hear you say you're taking tomorrow off?"

He shrugs. "Who knows when they'll let Gayle come home? I figured you shouldn't be alone. What would Henry say?" He points the back of the empty spoon at her. "I'm _prioritizing_."

There's a sarcastic remark on the tip of her tongue; something like '_It's about time_.' - but she bites it back. Instead, she reaches across the table, linking her fingers through his and looks right into his eyes. "Thank you for making me a priority."

He holds the gaze and swallows hard, turning her hand over and rubbing his thumb across the palm in slow circles. "You're welcome." He nods at the bowl. "Your ice cream is melting."

"I don't want it as much as I thought I did." She pats her belly. "He's kind of fickle that way." Raylan's eyes flash with something at her words, but before she can question him a yawn sneaks up on her. She dips her head into her shoulder to cover it. "Sorry."

"You should go to bed. It's been a long day. You gotta be exhausted." He unfolds himself from the chair and tugs at her hand. "Come on. I'll tuck you in."

"Wait," she says. "Sit down for a minute."

He sits back down, releasing her hand. Leaning back in the chair he eyes her cautiously. "Am I gonna need another beer for this?"

She shakes her head, one corner of her mouth turning up. "No, but I wish_ I_ could have one." She folds her hands together in front of her and takes a deep breath. "Are you worried that after the baby's born I'm going to push you away again?"

"The thought has occurred to me." He drums his long fingers on the table and waits for her response.

She blinks at his honesty. This is different and maybe that's a good thing. "I'm not going to," she says. "I promise."

"Yeah, well despite what I believe to be good intentions, your promises haven't always worked out that good, have they?"

"No, Raylan," she admits. She's stares down at her hand and thinks about the two rings she's worn and the two men she made vows to. Vows she broke. "God knows I've made mistakes."

"So have I," he says.

She tilts her head, watching him, considering her words carefully. They're definitely making progress, but everything between them is tenuous. The wrong wording or tone and this could easily dissolve into one of their usual arguments. "When you left to go down to Harlan after Loretta that day did you really think I'd be there when you got back?"

When he doesn't pop out of the chair in anger, she expects him to duck the question. The fact that it's taken her this long to ask it speaks volumes about the way they communicate - or rather don't communicate. "I tried not to think about it," he says. "I did what I had to do." He sighs and shakes his head, smiling slightly. "I guess in the backa my mind I thought that even if you did take off, I could find you and get you to come back."

She purses her lips. "Pretty confident of yourself, there Cowboy."

"I thought confidence was an admirable trait." There's a twinkle in his eye and she knows she's being baited but she can't stop herself.

She crosses her arms over her chest. "Confidence yes, arrogance, not so much."

"You think I'm arrogant?"

"No," she says. "You're not. I don't know why I said that."

It's his turn to study her. His eyes narrow, and his tongue swipes back and forth under his lower lip as he forms his question. "Why'd you come back if you knew were only gonna leave again?"

"Art called and..." She shrugs. "You needed me. That hasn't happened very often. I wanted to be there for you."

"Why? Just to pull the rug out from under me later?"

She wishes Henry were here to moderate this, but she's on her own. "That's not what I wanted. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"But you'd already decided to leave, right?"

"Before you were shot, yes. But I changed my mind, or I tried to."

"Like you've changed it now? How do I know you won't change it again?"

"You don't." She lets her shoulders fall, dropping her hands into what's left of her lap. Weariness covers her like a blanket, its heaviness pressing down on her. "I don't blame you for not trusting me."

"Looks like we've both got some things to work on, huh?" He rests his hands on his knees leaning toward her. "But that's for later. Right now, you're exhausted. You're goin' to bed if I have to carry you there."

"You might just have to," she gives him a weak smile.

"Come on," he says, standing and holding out his hand. This time she takes it and lets him pull her to her feet. She wraps her arms around him and tucks her head under his chin. His hands slide to her waist, including the baby in their embrace.


	24. Life Support

The buzzing of his phone jolts him from heavy sleep. He wakes muddled and disoriented in the crowded room on the small bed. Winona is tucked in close to him, hair spread out over the pillow, her breathing soft and steady. Thankfully, she's oblivious to the noise from the phone. He rolls away, replacing the covers around her, and clicks the phone on, shutting the door quietly behind him as he slips out of the bedroom.

"Hello?"

"Hello," an unfamiliar male voice. "Is this Raylan Givens?"

He squints at the glowing numbers on the DVR in the living room. "Yeah, it is. Who the hell is this? It's four in the morning."

"Mr. Givens, this is Earle Handley down at the Harlan County Jail. I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, but I called to tell you that your father, Arlo Givens, appears to have had a stroke. He's been taken to Harlan Memorial and we're gonna need you to come down here."

He shakes his head to clear the fuzziness from his brain. "Why do you need me?"

There's a long pause. "Uh, well," the man stammers. "There are decisions to be made. Unfortunately, he was unconscious when we found him and has not regained consciousness, so cannot state his wishes. You're listed as next of kin on his paperwork."

_Arlo oughtta have listed Boyd_. Raylan considers Boyd's visit to the jail. He can't think of a thing Boyd could've done to cause this, but it raises his suspicions about the timing of Arlo's illness. What was it Art had said about something happening to Arlo being Boyd's ticket to reasonable doubt if they got him for Devil's murder? "He was unconscious when you found him?"

"Yessir, he was."

"And you're sure it's a stroke?"

"As I said, that's what it looks like. That was the opinion of the paramedics. You might call the hospital. Maybe they could give you more information. I got the number here somewhere." Paper crinkles. "Here we go." The man rattles off the phone number. Raylan thanks him and hangs up. Not for the first time he wishes Gayle and Peter kept some liquor in this house. He could use a drink and a beer at 4 a.m. is just wrong.

He drinks a glass of water instead, calls the hospital, and spends fifteen minutes arguing with the nurse who answers. At first, citing HIPAA regulations, she refuses to even acknowledge that Arlo is there. He has to threaten to call the sheriff before she agrees to get the doctor in charge to come to the phone.

The doctor is slightly more cooperative, but not much. He sounds tired, which Raylan can understand, and he sounds impossibly young, with a nasal Boston accent. The accent sets Raylan's teeth grinding when he launches into a jargon-filled diatribe. "From what I know the prisoner was found in his cell unresponsive. When the paramedics brought him in we determined that he suffered a cerebrovascular accident sometime in the last two to four hours. It's ischemic in nature," The doctor pauses. "Unfortunately because of his confinement, he was without medical treatment for quite awhile. Had he been discovered right away, we might have been able to administer thrombolysis to lessen the damage, but as it is, I'm surprised he's even alive."

Raylan tries to make sense of the incomprehensible medical terminology but it only makes his head hurt. "What's his condition?"

"The hypoattenuation we saw on the CT scan indicates excessive irreversible damage."

The muscles in his jaw tighten and it's all he can do to keep his voice level. "Well, that's real helpful, Doctor. You are a doctor, right? Not some wet-behind-the-ears med student?"

There's an intake of breath and a long pause. When the doctor speaks again, the Boston accent is thick and attitude-laden. "The old man had a stroke. You got that or do you need me make it even simpler for you?"

Raylan bites back the natural response, opting instead for, "Now we're gettin' somewhere. He had a stroke and...?"

"And he's on life support. Does he have a living will?"

"I doubt it." He doesn't even know where those kind of papers might be kept at the house if there are any.

The doctor blows out a sigh and he states what Raylan already knows. "You might be in for a fight if you want to terminate life support. You're next of kin, but he was in state custody and they may try to appoint someone -"

"Shit."

"Your father is in very serious condition," the doctor repeats. "You really need to get here as soon as possible. I'm sorry I can't give you much encouragement as far as recovery. Now I need to go. I have other patients to see to."

Raylan clicks the phone off and stares out through the kitchen window into the early morning darkness. _ Life support._ _Shit._ Leave it to Arlo to find a way to fuck with him even as he's checking out.

"Who in the world are you talking to at this hour?" He startles at Winona's voice, bumping into the chair as he turns from the window.

"Ow, dammit!" He says, rubbing his hip.

"Sorry," she murmurs, coming closer. "I didn't mean to sneak up on you. Who were you talking to? Art? Did something happen at work?"

"No." Blowing out a breath he sinks into the chair.

"I'll make some coffee." She accepts his silence as she goes through the routine. Soon the kitchen is full of the comforting smell of brewing coffee and she pulls out another chair and sits down. He expects the same question again, but she waits, quiet, hands folded on the table in front of her, wide blue eyes searching his face.

"Arlo had a stroke," he says. "At least they think it's a stroke."

"Is he...?"

He rests his linked fingers on top of his head and closes his eyes. "He's still alive."

Winona bites her bottom lip. "That's good," she says, hesitantly.

"Is it?" His hands drop to his side. "I guess I gotta go down there. He's on life support and can't make any decisions. Shit. I oughta tell 'em to just call Boyd."

Again he expects a comment, but she just tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and looks at him. "I'm sorry, Raylan." He knows it's a blanket statement, covering not only this unfortunate circumstance, but his entire relationship with his father, what she knows of it, anyway.

She pours the coffee for them both and sets cream and sugar in front of him. "I'm going with you."

He takes too large a sip, sputtering hot liquid on the table. "No," he says, his tongue stinging. "You are not goin' to Harlan with me. That's the last place you need to be."

"You mean that's the last place you want me." Her eyes flash a warning. "You can't pull me close with one hand and push me away with the other, Raylan. If you want me to share your life then you need to let me in."

"Not this. Not Arlo." He shakes his head. "You're right. I don't want you or our baby anywhere near him."

"He's lying unconscious in a hospital bed. Maybe dying. What can he possibly do to me or the baby?"

"Don't underestimate the son-of-a-bitch," he says. He blows on the coffee to cool it and takes another sip. "Besides, you're supposed to take it easy."

She pushes up from the table. "I'll be sitting in a car and then most likely sitting in a waiting room. I'm sure I can even stretch out and take a nap if I want. Not much different than what I'd be doing here."

"No. You're not going and that's final. If you don't wanna stay here alone I'll drop you off at the hospital. You can sit with Gayle until they release her."

"That's final?" She laughs. "I'm not a child. You don't get to order me around." She sets her coffee cup down hard, the liquid sloshing dangerously. "Gayle doesn't need me, she has Peter. You need me."

"I don't..." He starts.

Winona grimaces. "You don't need me? Oh, that's right, Raylan. I forgot. You don't need anyone. You've always made that perfectly clear." She turns quickly, the white gown billowing around her as she stomps toward the hallway.

"Winona..."

She whirls around to face him. "The thing is, I think you do need me, or you wouldn't be here. So guess what? You don't get to do this alone. It's non-negotiable. I'm going with you." She backs out of the room, her eyes never leaving his face. "I'm going to go get dressed and so help me, if you are gone when I get back I will drive myself down there." She gives him a withering look. "I know the way, remember?"

-o-o-O-o-o-

She steals another sideways glance at him as he takes the exit into Lexington. The ride has been silent since they left the house, except for the sound of the windshield wipers rhythmic _thwackity thwack_. He pulls into the parking lot at the bar, empty save for a few abandoned cars waiting for their now-sober drivers to return for them.

"Wait here. I'm just gonna change my shirt and grab a jacket." He doesn't look back at her, just walks wearily to the door and disappears inside.

He comes back a few minutes later in a shirt and tie. Tossing the hat into the backseat he hands her a foil package. "Thought you might be hungry."

She takes it for a peace offering. "Thanks." She laughs softly as she tears the package open. "You still eat these things?"

"What's wrong with PopTarts?"

"Nothing, I just haven't had any in awhile," she says, taking a bite. "But I thought I was the one who liked cherry. You always wanted me to buy those brown ones."

He shrugs and holds up another package. "I like 'em both."

"Give it here." She tears it open for him while he eases out into the early morning traffic. He makes a quick pass at a drive-through for coffee -decaf for her- and they're on the road to Harlan.

The sun is shining by the time they pull into the hospital parking lot. It's warm, but she shivers, remembering another day, not that long ago. She almost expects to see Art waiting when they come through the automatic doors. Chief Mullen isn't there, of course, but a familiar-looking woman stands near the window, her arm tucked through the elbow of the man beside her, his dark head bent to her blonde one.

"Shit," Raylan mutters. Winona raises an eyebrow. "I shoulda known he'd be here."

Ava. Ava Crowder. The name comes back to her. She's the woman who shot her husband. The woman Raylan brought to the house that night. That's why she looks familiar. So that must be Boyd Crowder. His gaze is dark and penetrating and she drops her eyes, smoothing the silky tunic down over her stomach and letting her hand rest there for a moment. She tilts her head up and notes the hard line of Raylan's jaw as the couple approaches.

Ava speaks first. "Raylan we're so sorry about Arlo."

"Save it," he says through clenched teeth.

"How is he?" The man asks, his dark eyes focused on Raylan's.

"They won't tell you?" Raylan's voice has that calm tone Winona recognizes as anger covered with the thin veneer of forced southern politeness. "Gee, I guess you aren't family after all." His hand is at her elbow and he propels her past them.

"You'll let us know?" Ava calls after them.

"I won't be callin' you," Raylan replies without turning around or breaking stride. "But you obviously have other sources of information."

Winona lets Raylan steer her around the corner and three steps later, wrenches herself free. "Raylan, I know you ended things with her but I seem to recall you trying to keep her safe."

He stops, inhales loudly and exhales. "Not now."

His stubbornness causes her own frustrated sigh. "And we're back where we started before therapy."

"It's kinda hard to protect someone from themselves." He puts his palm to the wall and shifts his weight to one leg.

"You're telling _me_?" Winona looks up at him, wishing she had on heels instead of the flats she opted for. She can't even look him in the eye.

"Ava's gone to the dark side," he says. "She's running whores now."

Winona wrinkles her nose. "She's a...madam?"

"Yeah." He snorts a humorless laugh. "The best little whorehouse in Harlan." He straightens and reaches for her hand. "Come on, let's get this over with."

He heads to the right but she tugs at his hand, pointing in the opposite direction. "I happen to know ICU is this way."

His eyes meet hers and he squeezes her hand. It's as close as she's going to get to an apology or an admission that he's glad she's here, so she gives him a quick smile and squeezes back.


	25. Intensive Care

_Just to reiterate, I do not own Justified or any of these characters. They belong to Elmore Leonard. Graham Yost, and FX. I just play with them to fill the time during the (too) long hiatus._

It takes Winona until they're at the nurse's station in the ICU before she realizes exactly what happened. He did it. It took prodding but he told her something important. Two sentences that added a whole new dimension to why he didn't want her here in the first place.

That woman, Ava, crossed a line. Raylan probably still cared about her and what she was doing bothered him more than he wanted to admit, even to himself. He knew she would be here, just like she was at Helen's funeral. Winona's forehead creases as she recalls Ava was with the same man there, too. Raylan didn't acknowledge either of them then, just as he brushed them aside now.

There was something going on between all of them that was much deeper than Ava becoming a backwoods madam. Something, perhaps, to do with Arlo.

She knows better than to ask directly. That will just bring up his defenses and leave her in frustrating silence. She'll have to be more subtle. This is what Raylan doesn't understand. He thinks she just knows him, but being involved with Raylan Givens is hard work. It's like a full time job figuring out how to dig bits and pieces of information out of him and then working overtime trying to fit them all together so the picture makes sense. It's exhausting.

Now he's got both palms on the desk, his body angled in, gaze fixed on the ICU nurse. Their tones are hushed, the words obscured by the beeps and whooshes of machinery coming from the tiny cubicles lining the U-shaped room. His lips move and the nurse shakes her head. Winona moves closer to hear the conversation.

"The man is on life support, why is he handcuffed to the bed?"

"Regulations. I'm sorry. The sheriff's department is understaffed over at at County or they'd have a guard posted, too." She glances at a chart in front of her. "The neurologist should be making his rounds in half-an-hour or so, if you want to talk to him."

His hand goes to his hip and he drops his head. "Is it all right if I..." something shifts in his face and his eyes flick towards Winona. "...if _we _go in?"

She nods. "Certainly."

Raylan's hand is at the small of her back leading her toward the glassed in room just left of the nurses station. "You don't have to go in if you don't want."

"I'm fine, Raylan." She assures him. "But if you want to do this by yourself, it's alright."

He meets her eyes and slides his hand to her waist. "I think I'd rather."

"Okay." She stretches up and gives him a quick kiss. "I'll be right over here." She hooks her thumb at a somewhat comfortable-looking couch on the other side of the narrow room, near the hallway.

From her spot on the couch she watches as Raylan enters the room and stares down at the man lying in the bed. From what he's told her, there isn't much hope that Arlo will survive, or even regain consciousness. The machine whirs and hisses, and Arlo's chest rises and falls, but it's merely postponing the inevitable. He walks around the bed, fingers sliding over the brim of the hat in his hand. She wonders what he's feeling. Anger? Regret? Nothing at all?

She understands Raylan's frustration more than he realizes. She came home when her mother got sick because it hadn't seemed right to let Gayle bear all of the burden. Her father was too distraught to be much help, and in the back of her mind Winona hoped that maybe caring for her mother in her final days might help them to finally connect. But it hadn't. There was no moment of revelation, no hand-holding, no tears of regret. Her mother died like she lived, a frustrating enigma to her youngest daughter.

It hasn't escaped her that in her relationship to Raylan, she's traded one enigma for another.

-o-o-O-o-o-

"He was an intractable man. I'd imagine it must be burdensome to be his son."

Raylan's head snaps up at the voice, eyes narrowing. He doesn't recognize the short stocky man in the dark suit whose words bring to mind Boyd Crowder.

"It is Raylan, isn't it?"

Something in the man's voice or the brightness of his eyes is familiar, but Raylan still can't place him. This confusion must show on his face because the man laughs.

"I'm not surprised you don't remember me," he says. "The few times your mother dragged you with her on Sunday morning you spent most of your time sleeping or throwing paper wads at Emily Spooner."

"Reverend," Raylan starts, but even though he can place him now, he can't wrestle the man's name from his memory.

The man takes a step forward and holds out his hand. "It's Reverend Howard, Galen Howard. I retired from the church at large. Now I'm the chaplain here. I make myself available to patients and their families."

Raylan glances down. "I don't think Arlo's gonna be havin' any death bed conversions."

"It wouldn't be a conversion." Reverend Howard lays one hand on the bed rail. "He was baptized. Your whole family is on the church rolls. And he did come to services every once in a blue moon." His eyes flick to Raylan's face. "You know, he wasn't always such a..."

"Son-of-a-bitch?" Raylan finishes.

His words don't seem to shock the man. "I was going to say 'difficult person'," Reverend Howard chuckles. "But he _could _be an SOB." His thoughtful gaze moves from the man in the bed back to Raylan. "What have the doctors told you?"

"Nothin' to tell. It was a stroke. He's on life support."

"I can see that," he says. His expression is kind, concerned. "What kind of support do _you _have?"

Raylan stares at the back wall of the cubicle. It's painted a dull green. The other walls aren't walls at all, really. Two are fold out panels separating Arlo from the patients on either side, and the last is part glass with a flimsy cloth doorway easily pulled aside to admit doctors, nurses, and the machinery necessary to maintain life under extreme circumstances. Reverend Howard obviously has good intentions but if he follows this up by asking him how he is with the Lord Raylan just might punch him. Fidgety, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other and runs a hand through his hair. "My wi...ex-wife is here." He's not even sure why he's telling the man that much. As if on cue, the curtain parts and Winona appears.

"I can't come in," she says. "The nurse said only two at a time, but I wanted to tell you I'm going to go get a bite to eat in the cafeteria. Do you want anything?"

"No," he says, shaking his head.

Blue eyes fix on his. "You sure?"

Reverend Howard turns to her, holding out his hand. "Galen Howard, I'm the chaplain here."

"I'm Winona." She takes his hand.

"Just bring him something," he suggests. "People under stress often don't feel hungry, but he'll need sustenance."

"I'll do that." She tilts her head and studies the reverend, then lays a hand on Raylan's shoulder. "I'll be right back." Raylan's eyes follow her out.

"Your ex-wife is a beautiful woman." When Raylan doesn't reply there's an exhale of breath and Reverend Howard struggles with the silence. "That your baby she's carrying?"

"That'd be filed under none of your business."

The pastor presses his lips together. "You're right, of course," he says, turning his attention back to Arlo. "Would you mind if I had a prayer?"

Raylan is spared from answering one way or another by the loud voice of the nurse at the desk. "Sir, if you aren't family, you will have to leave." Her voice increases in volume and anxiety. "Sir! I'm calling security!"

The curtain is jerked open and Boyd Crowder steps in, almost bumping into Reverend Howard. "Excuse me," he says.

"What the hell? Boyd?" Raylan's been waiting for a reason to let his temper loose and Boyd Crowder has just given it to him. He springs forward and shoves him with both hands. Boyd's legs go out from under him as he tumbles backwards out of the cubicle, sprawling on the floor.

Raylan rears back, fist clenched, but Reverend Howard grabs his arm with surprising strength. "Stop it, Son. Let it go."

Two scrawny security guards round the corner and approach warily. The nurse points to Boyd who's pushing himself up from the floor. "That's him. I told him to leave. He's _not_family."

On his feet now, Boyd raises both his hands. "I'm goin'. I'm goin'. That man in lying in there is a friend and colleague. I only wanted to assure myself that his condition was as grave as it was reported to me."

"Get the hell out of here," Raylan snarls. The reverend's hand is still on his arm and he wrenches it away just as Winona comes around the corner carrying two styrofoam containers with cups balanced on top. Her eyes widen as she stares at him over the stack.

Boyd's phone buzzes and he pulls it from his pocket, glancing at the text. His mouth spreads into a wide grin and he shakes his head, fixing his gaze on Raylan. "Marshal, your timing is impeccable as always." He nods at the guards. "No need to drag me out. I'll leave peacefully. It seems that my presence is required elsewhere. Sheriff Shelby and two of Raylan's U.S. Marshal friends are waiting for me at my establishment with a search warrant."

_Thanks to MSBrooklyn for her help with this chapter._


	26. It's Complicated

"You'd rather be at Boyd's place serving that search warrant, wouldn't you?" She takes another forkful of the bland chicken salad. It's got way too much mayo and celery and not nearly enough chicken, but she's too hungry to care.

Raylan tosses half of his soggy looking turkey sandwich down. "I'd rather be just about anywhere but here." He tugs the lid off the styrofoam cup and takes a sip of pop. He looks back at the glassed in room and she follows his gaze. They watch as Reverend Howard lays a hand on Arlo's head. Lips moving, face tilted upward, he closes his eyes and raises the other hand in the air.

"That's quite a prayer," Winona says. "He's been in there for awhile."

"Maybe he figures Arlo needs all the help he can get." Raylan raises an eyebrow. "If I get to Heaven and he's there, I'm gonna hold Reverend Howard personally responsible." He picks up the sandwich and sets it down again without taking a bite. "I wish that doc would show up."

"What're you going to do?"

He blows out a breath. "From everything they've told me, the ventilator is the only thing keeping him alive."

That's not an answer, but she doesn't press. She stirs her iced tea with the straw and scrapes her teeth over her bottom lip, fighting off the desire to tell him again how sorry she is. She doesn't know much about his relationship with his father, but she knows Raylan, and he's on the edge. Nervous energy rolls off him. His fingers drum on the table and he fidgets in the chair. He slides the hat on and picks up his cell phone. "I think I'll call Art and see how the search went. You okay here?"

Work. Of course. He uses work to lose himself and avoid feelings he doesn't know what to do with. She's known that for a long time, but to have it so blatantly displayed is almost humorous. "I could use some fresh air," she says. "Maybe I'll take a walk outside."

He shakes his head. "Wait a minute and I'll go with you."

"But the doctor might..." His eyes narrow and his finger hovers in the air, jabbing in her direction. "Just...wait." He pushes buttons on the phone and presses it to his ear.

The nurse shoots daggers at him and points to the hallway.

"Be right back," he says, over his shoulder.

Winona pushes the rest of the salad around on her plate. Ugh. She steals a potato chip from Raylan, munching on it while she watches him pace back and forth in the hallway talking to Art.

"Children are a joy and a blessing from God."

"I hope so," she says, her hand drifting automatically to rest on the bulge at her waist. She looks up at the reverend. His open face and cheerful expression put her instantly at ease. He must've been very good at his job.

"They're challenging, too, of course. My three, well, they're grown now, but they kept us hopping when they were younger. "Do you mind?" He pulls out the chair on her left and sinks into it before she can reply. "My wife died two years ago," he says. "The kids are married, scattered all over the place. It's one reason I'm doing this. Gets me out of the house, keeps me from thinking too much; dwelling on the past. I like to be busy."

He isn't giving her a reason to talk, so she sips her iced tea and nods.

"So, you're Raylan's ex-wife?"

"Yes."

"It's kind of you to be here for him, despite the circumstances."

He's not implying anything, but she flushes, feeling the need to explain. "It's complicated," she says. And he doesn't have anyone else, she thinks. Art, maybe, but he wouldn't intrude and Raylan would never ask.

"Betty Jo, that was my wife, she didn't always appreciate being married to a man of the cloth. Said it was like livin' in a fish bowl. And I was gone a lot, attending to parishioners and the like. Sometimes she felt...unimportant."

Winona figures he's making the assumption, not totally incorrect, that Raylan's job is a source of conflict, but comparing the ministry to law enforcement seems ridiculous to her. "You didn't get shot at much, I'd bet."

"Oh, maybe once or twice," he says with a wink.

She's about to laugh and call him on his fib when she remembers where they are. This is Harlan.

"Whew." He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and mops at his forehead. "It's good to be off my feet. I was up all night. There was a car accident, and then a young woman had twin girls born premature." He meets her startled gaze and smiles reassuringly. "They're gonna be fine. They took them up to Lexington to the neo-natal ICU. It's amazing what they can do these days. How far along are you, if I may ask?"

"You already did," Winona points out. "Five and half months."

His brow furrows as he does a quick calculation in his head. "Ah," he beams. "A Christmas baby?"

"Hopefully before that. I'm due around the ninth." She glances around, but Raylan has disappeared, pacing far enough down the hallway that she can't catch his eye.

"Winona," he says. "It is Winona, right? I meet so many people sometimes names go right out of my head, but yours is unusual enough that it stuck." He pauses and when she doesn't correct him continues. "I'm afraid your ex-husband is going to have a difficult decision to make."

"We're aware of that," she says. "He and his father aren't close."

"He made that clear, in his own way." Reverend Howard nods. "Still," he pats her hand. "I'm glad there's someone here with him. This isn't something that anyone should have to go through alone."

-o-o-O-o-o-

When he finishes filling Art in on the details of Arlo's condition there's a long pause from his boss's end. "I'm real sorry you're havin' to deal with this, Raylan."

"You 'n me both," Raylan says.

"You need some company down there? I can be there in a couple hours, or I can have Tim or Rachel..."

"No," he answers quickly. The last thing he needs is more people milling around oozing misplaced sympathy. "Winona's here."

"Well, that's...good." Another pause. "Isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess. Listen, have you heard anything from Tim and Rachel? How did it go at the bar with the warrant? Did they find anything?"

"How'd you even know about that?" Art asks, his tone suspicious.

Too late, Raylan realizes he's opened another can of worms. He explains about finding Boyd and Ava waiting when they'd arrived at the hospital. He leaves out the part about Boyd landing on his ass in the ICU waiting room.

"How'd Boyd know about Arlo?"

"How does Boyd know anything?" Raylan huffs. "We know he backed Shelby in the election. Information is probably the least of the perks he's getting from the Harlan County Sheriff."

"They found guns. Of course, they'd probably find guns at the preschool down there in Harlan." Art says.

"What kinda guns? How many?"

"Three rifles, a sawed off, and a couple of pistols. We got 'em all. We'll compare the rifles to what we got from Pitts' autopsy."

"Good. You might show the guns to Johnny, too. He was there. He might know which one Ava used. He okay?"

"Gettin' a little antsy." Art chuckles. "Asked Tim last night if he could call him a hooker."

"Did he?" Sometimes Raylan thinks Tim could use a hooker himself. Or a steady girlfriend. Then again, maybe not. "Tell Johnny that if this all comes out the way we think, it won't be much longer."

"Already did." There's a clicking sound on the line. "Listen, Raylan, I got a call here from the ATF I gotta take. You do what you need to do down there. Take tomorrow, too. That's not a request. I don't want to see you in the office before Monday. But you can call me, if you want."

For the second time in twenty-four hours his boss's tone brooks no argument. "Yeah, okay, thanks Art," Raylan says. He slips the phone back in his pocket and leans against the wall by the elevators, closing his eyes. He hadn't told Art about the confrontation with Boyd, there seemed no need. His eyelids are heavy and it's a struggle to open them and push away from the wall. Head down, he walks slowly back toward the ICU waiting room.

"Sorry that took so long," he says, taking a seat beside Winona.

"Reverend Howard kept me company for awhile. He's kind of nosy, isn't he?"

A corner of Raylan's mouth turns up and he shrugs. "It's a small town. Everyone is nosy. Especially about strangers."

"And I'm a stranger."

"Not to me." He lays a hand over hers on the table and she turns her palm up, linking their fingers. "How about that walk now?"

-o-o-O-o-o-

"It would be a lot simpler if we had an end-of-life directive," says Dr. Singh. The tall, dark skinned neurologist is obviously Indian, but he speaks with a clipped British accent. Raylan wonders if there is any such thing as a Kentucky doctor anymore.

"I told the guy I talked to last night..."

"That would be Dr. Jameson, the emergency room physician."

"Yeah," Raylan says, hand on his hip. "I told him Arlo didn't have anything like that; at least not that I know of."

"Sometimes parents don't like to discuss those things with their children, although everyone should have one, no matter their age," Dr. Singh says. "I see here that he was incarcerated at the time of the incident. Do you have access to his home, or to a lawyer who might know if such a directive exists?"

"What if I don't?"

Dr. Singh glances down at the chart in his hand, then over Raylan's head into the cubicle where Arlo lies. "Then things get complicated. Because your father was in state custody, in order to cease the life support we would need to have the state's attorney sign off on it."

"So I need a court order."

"Essentially, yes." Dr. Singh nods. "Still, I would do a through search of his home, contact anyone who might have knowledge of a plan of some kind for this event. Legally, it may take anywhere from a few days to a few weeks if the state drags its feet."

Once again, Raylan thinks, timing is everything. If only Arlo had been discovered just a bit later he'd be talking to a mortuary instead of a doctor. "I suppose I could go to the house and look," he says. "But I'm not countin' on finding anything."

"I'll notify the court of his condition," Dr. Singh says. "That way they can get the paperwork started."

-o-o-O-o-o-

Raylan turns to her when they pull up in front of the house. "You wanna just wait in the car? There's only a couple of places it might be. It won't take long."

The only other time she was at this house was for Helen's funeral. Then it was crowded with people, the kitchen counter and dining room table covered with food. Now it's empty, hollow. It's been less than a month since Arlo's arrest and even from the outside it already has the air of someplace long abandoned. She can't let him go in there alone, no matter how much he thinks that's what he wants.

"I've been sitting most of the day," Winona says. "It'll feel good to stretch my legs."

"We took a walk, remember?" His head is down, his hands still wrapped around the steering wheel. The twitch along his jaw let's her know he doesn't like her answer.

"I could use a drink of water."

"Alright then, come on," he sighs.

The inside of the house is surprisingly neat and clean for a man living alone like Arlo was. Someone was helping him, Winona realizes. Probably Ava. The kitchen is spotless, the countertops clear, towels folded neatly over the edge of the sink. Raylan leaves her, wandering into the living room without a word, and she hears drawers opening and closing.

She finds the glasses in the cabinet beside the refrigerator and runs the faucet for a moment to let the water cool. She sips, wrinkling her nose at the metallic taste of the well-water. Thinking it might be better with ice, she opens the freezer. There's a plastic bowl with ice cubes, fused together and covered with frost. She smacks the bowl on the counter and breaks off a chunk, sliding it into the glass. The water still tastes awful, but at least it's cold. Opening the freezer again, she looks over the contents as she sets the ice back inside. Six or seven square plastic containers are stacked one on top of the other, each one labeled with a date and the contents. Vegetable Soup. Bean Soup. Tomato sauce.

"That's Helen's handwriting." Raylan's voice from behind her makes her jump. "She always put up things from the garden for winter. I'd imagine there's canned stuff in the cupboard, too."

He reaches past her and opens the door to reveal surprisingly well-stocked shelves. There are the typical store-bought cans of soup and vegetables, but mostly the cupboard holds rows of glass mason jars full of relish, beets, green beans, peaches. Raylan takes down a jar of peaches. A date is scrawled on the metal lid, in the same broad handwriting as the containers in the freezer.

Raylan twists the lid off the jar and gets a fork from the drawer. "Here," he says, spearing a section of peach. Winona opens her mouth and he slides it in. The tangy sweetness is welcome after the sharp taste of the water. "Ummm. Cinnamon?"

"Yep." He takes a bite for himself and smiles. "Helen always put a little cinnamon in with the peaches. Apples, too. She used to make apple sauce." He reaches into the cupboard again. "Yep. Two jars."

They share the peaches and Raylan washes out the glass, setting it upside down in the drainer.

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Nope, no papers. But I did find this." He dangles a small key on a chain in front of her.

"What's that to?"

"I'm betting it's to a safety deposit box. I thought we'd swing by the bank on our way back to the hospital."

"Alright," Winona says. "You know, you could take some of this with you. I mean, no one's going to be here to eat it. It'd be a shame to have it go to waste."

"That's a good idea." Raylan squints at her, the fine lines gathering around his eyes. There's a look there that makes her stomach do a flip. She swallows hard and he breaks the gaze, turning away from her. "I'll look for a box for these and then we can head to the bank."


	27. Harlan Express

It's four-thirty-one and the door to the bank is locked. He taps his ring on the glass and the young girl behind the counter looks up from her task. She points to her watch and shakes her head with a smile and a shrug of her shoulders. Huffing in frustration, Raylan unclips the Marshal's star from his belt and slaps it up against the glass. She hurries from her post and skitters across the floor in heels higher than the ones Winona usually wears. After peering at his badge through the glass, there's a click and she unlocks the door, opening it just wide enough to talk to him.

"Can I help you, officer?"

"It's _Marshal_, Katie," he says reading her name from the tag pinned to her blouse. "Not officer, and you can help me by telling me if this here key might fit one of your safety deposit boxes." He smiles, warm, and she flushes and blinks, taking the key he dangles in front of her and laying it in her palm.

"Yes, this is one of ours."

"I'd like to get a look at the contents of that box. Can you do that for me?"

She shakes her head again. "I'm sorry. I'd like to help you, but our whole safe area is locked and it's on this timer thing. No one can open it until morning, except the manager and he's gone for the day."

"Can you reach him?"

She slides her teeth over her bottom lip. "I'm not supposed to call him unless it's an emergency," she says doubtfully.

"This could be a matter of life and death," Raylan assures her.

"Alright." She nods. "I'll call him at home. But you'll need to wait out here. I'm not allowed to let anyone in after hours."

He decides against using the U.S. Marshal argument again and she locks the door and walks back to the desk. He watches until she picks up the phone. The car horn sounds and he turns. Winona motions to him and cracks the door open. "What's going on?"

"They're closed. She has to call the manager."

"If we're going to be here for awhile, can I have the keys? It's getting awful hot in here." She fans herself with a folded newspaper to make her point.

"Sure, sorry." He slides in behind the wheel and starts the car, adjusting the vents so Winona gets the full benefit of the cool air. "You want something to drink? There's a pop machine over there."

She squints at the machine, flush against the building next door but she can't make out the offerings. "If there's anything with no caffeine. With all the coffee I've had today, I'm already over my limit. Seven-Up or Sprite would be good."

He's headed back to the car with the bright green can when the bank door opens. Katie comes out, sweater over her arm, purse in hand. She locks the door behind her. "Sorry, the manager went fishing. His wife isn't sure where he is, and his cell phone is either out of range or he isn't answering."

"Who's your manager?" Raylan asks. He hands the can to Winona through the window and turns back to Katie. She's shifting from one foot to the other, unsure of whether to answer his question.

"It's right there on the glass," Raylan says, pointing to the door she just exited. "You're only saving me walkin' up there to read it myself."

"Vernon Collins." She smiles in his general direction as she walks to a silver-colored late model Camry parked in the corner of the lot. "We open tomorrow at 9."

He nods, tipping the hat. "Thanks for your help, Katie."

He turns out of the parking lot, headed back through town.

"This isn't the way to the hospital, is it?" Winona asks. "Where are we going?"

"I know all the best fishing holes in Harlan. He has to be at one of them."

"You're kidding." Winona rolls her eyes. "And he's going to be thrilled to leave his fishing and come let you in to look at a safety deposit box that you could look at in the morning."

He sighs and one hand drops off the wheel to rest on the edge of the window. "I just want this over with."

"I know you do."

The sun hits the windshield, blinding them both momentarily. He flips down the visor and squints at the clock on the dashboard. "Shit," he mutters. "It's after five now. By the time we find him, get back here, and get to the hospital the doctor will be gone and I won't be able to do anything tonight anyway. There probably isn't even anything in the damn box. I might as well take you back to Gayle's. I can come back down tomorrow."

"It's a three hour drive to Louisville from here. Then another hour or more back to Lexington. You're exhausted now, Raylan. Maybe we should just stay here tonight."

Now it's his turn for the eye roll. "Where're you proposin' we stay? There isn't exactly a Harlan Hilton."

"We could stay at the house."

"No. No goddamn way. I'm not sleepin' in Arlo's bed."

Her hair has fallen forward, hiding her face, so he can't see her expression. She turns her head and opens her mouth, but stops, shakes her head and presses her lips together in a frown.

"What?" He asks, exasperated.

"Wasn't there a Holiday Inn Express back at the exit?"

"That's ten miles up the road."

"It's closer than Lexington," she fumes. "You really are impossible!"

"Wouldn't you rather sleep in your own bed?"

She smirks at him. "I don't have one."

He mentally counts to ten. She's pregnant. Hormones. It must be hormones. Why else would she be picking a fight with him at this moment under these circumstances?

"I'm not trying to fight, Raylan."

He wonders again how she knows what he's thinking. It's comforting and damn annoying at the same time.

She turns toward him in the seat. "You're tired. You've got a lot going on. I know you don't want to talk about it, and I don't expect you to. But you need to get some rest."

"I could use a drink," he sighs. "Do you think they have those over-priced mini-bars at Holiday Inn Express?"

-o-o-O-o-o-

"I'm going to take a shower," she says over her shoulder as she walks into the bathroom.

"What's all this?" She turns to see Raylan shaking his head as he looks at her overnight bag setting on the small table and the change of clothes she brought draped over the chair.

She shrugs. "I didn't know how long we might be here and if I needed something..." she pauses. "I mean, we're in _Harlan_."

"They have a Walmart." He pulls the bottle from the plain brown sack and twists off the lid.

"I just bet the Harlan Walmart has a wide selection of fashionable maternity tents." She smirks.

Golden brown liquid splashes into the glass and her mouth waters as she watches him take a sip and swallow. She wishes, not for the first time in these past few months, that she could have a good strong drink, too.

"I wish you'da said somethin'. I should've grabbed some things too." He takes another sip.

"Don't you still keep a bag in the trunk of the car?" She knows he always kept an extra set of clothes and essentials ready when they were married in case he had to spend the night on the road.

"Yeah, but I forgot about it the last time I spent the night doin' witsec at the motel with Johnny Crowder. Everything's dirty."

"Dirty or just wrinkled?" She asks, pointing to the small open closet by the door. "There's an ironing board."

"You offerin"?"

"Just observing." She rifles through the bag, coming up with a clip. She twists her hair into a knot and secures it. "Walmart probably has a nicer selection of men's wear. Lots of flannel, I'd bet."

He plucks at his front. "I can wear this shirt again. I'll just wash out my underwear in the sink. Or go commando." He grins at her as he pours himself a second drink.

She returns the smile. "More than I need to know, Cowboy."

The warm water is soothing and she ends up taking a longer shower than she intended. She comes out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel to find him sprawled on the bed snoring softly. His shirt is hanging on the back of the chair and his boots are lined up beside the bed. The glass, empty save for ice chips floating in watery remnants, rests on his chest. She gently pries it from his fingers, setting it on the nightstand. His face is relaxed, all the lines smoothed out and that stubborn lock of hair has fallen across his forehead so he looks like a small boy. Her heart skips a beat and she wonders if this is what their son will look like one day. She brushes the hair aside and leans in, planting a soft kiss there. She slips into her nightgown, clicks out the light, and crawls under the covers, falling asleep almost immediately.

-o-o-O-o-o-

He's sick and tired of being woken up by the damn phone. This time it's woken Winona, too and she looks up at him, concerned, as he answers. "Givens." His voice comes out rough and he clears his throat, wishing there were more whiskey in the glass on the nightstand.

"Raylan?" Johnny Crowder says in a low whisper.

He shakes his head at Winona. It's not about Arlo. She rolls away, pulling the covers up around her shoulders and pushing her face back into the pillow. "What's up Johnny? Everything okay?" He squints at the clock, surprised to see it's only just past midnight.

"Boyd just called me."

Raylan pushes up from the bed. Walking to the window, he pulls back the curtain and does a quick sweep of the parking lot. The Lincoln is undisturbed. "What'd he want?"

"Wondered when I was comin' back." His voice wavers. "He sounded funny. You think he knows? You think he's figured it out?"

"Nah," Raylan says. Truthfully, Boyd may have put two and two together, but maybe he can convince Johnny otherwise, or at least keep him calm until he can get back to Lexington. "Listen, I'm down here in Harlan, I'll see what I can find out. You hold tight." He gets the bottle from the dresser carrying it back and tipping some of the contents into the glass. He takes a long drink. "Tim there with you?" He goes into the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him and switching on the light. Back to the mirror, he leans on the counter.

"No," Johnny says. "Some old guy. Leo somethin'?"

Raylan chuckles. "Art called Leo, huh? He's semi-retired but he used to be one of the best." Leo Malone worked with Art when he was new to the service and briefly with both of them at Glynco. Art considered him a friend and mentor and sometimes called him in when they were short handed. He probably wanted to give Tim and Rachel some time off after serving the search warrant earlier. Raylan feels a pang of guilt and wonders if he shouldn't have just gone back to Lexington. It's not like Arlo's goin' anywhere.

"You bein' funny?"

"Not at all. Leo's a good guy. He's been doin' witsec since you and I were in diapers."

"Well, he looks like he could be in diapers now," Johnny snorts.

"I heard that." Leo's gravelly voice floats in the background. "You better watch it Crowder, or I might be in the 'changing room' when your cousin comes round to plug you."

"He's just kiddin'." Raylan assures Johnny. "He's a good guy."

"He's watchin' _American Hoggers_for godsakes."

He chuckles. "That's gotta be at least as good as _Swamp People_, maybe better." He finishes off the whiskey. "Listen, don't worry about Boyd. I'll keep an eye on things down here."

"I'm gettin' a little tired of these four walls, Raylan. How much longer's it gonna be?"

"If the search warrant we served at the bar today pans out, not long."

There's a long sigh. "I sure hope so. I'm ready to get this shit over with and get back to my bar."

"Nothin' I'd like better, Johnny. Get some rest. I'll call you tomorrow."

He turns off the light before he opens the door, but Winona stirs anyway. "Who was that?" she asks, her voice muffled.

He eases down onto the bed. "Just Johnny. He's gettin' antsy in that motel. Don't blame him."

"Um hmm," she murmurs, rolling onto her back.

"Go back to sleep," he says, running his hand over the mound her stomach makes in the blanket. "I'm gonna go check something out."

"What?" Her eyes snap open. "What're you going to check out in the middle of the night?"

"I'm just gonna drive by the bar, make sure Boyd's here in town and not off lookin' for Johnny."

She pushes up on one elbow, peering at him in the darkness. "I thought you said Art told you to stay away from Boyd."

"I'm not goin' in, I'm just drivin' by. I'm still responsible for gettin' Johnny into this."

"Johnny's got someone with him, right? He's safe?"

"Well, yeah, but..."

"And just driving by the bar won't tell you anything. You'll have to go in to see for yourself if Boyd's really there."

He runs a hand through his hair and shifts on the bed. "Maybe," he admits.

"I get this feeling you don't like him much." She smirks, sitting up and scooting over beside him. "Are you going to find an excuse to hit him again like you did today at the hospital? Finish what you started?"

He clenches his jaw and huffs out a breath. "He's the one who started it by showin' up."

There's a hand on his shoulder, cool and soft. So is her voice, but her eyes are wide, pleading. "Don't go, Raylan. Stay here with me. Let's just go back to sleep. Please."

_Shit. _


	28. Head Games

"This isn't about doing your job, Raylan, it's about Boyd Crowder."

Even in the dark she can see the conflict play across his face. The muscles in his shoulder twitch under her hand. She breathes slowly, in and out, willing herself to stay calm, biting back familiar words about some things never changing. He hasn't left yet. And she hasn't reacted badly. Yet. She needs to give him a chance, give them both a chance.

After a few minutes he sighs and looks at her. "You know how Albert Einstein defined insanity?"

"No, how?"

"Doin' the same thing over and over again expectin' a different result." He reaches for his cell phone on the nightstand. "I'm gonna make a call."

She blinks. He's staying? Wondering if he's bullshitting her, she cocks her head, studying him. He lifts his head, holding her gaze. "Maybe it's time to try something different," he murmurs.

Flooded with gratitude and relief, she leans in, pressing her lips to his, lingering.

His fingers brush across her cheek and he pulls away. "I'd better make this call before it gets any later." He pushes a button on the phone. "I'll be right back."

"Okay." She bunches the pillow and curls on her side, watching him walk to the door, phone already pressed to his ear. He closes it quietly behind him. He's gone for a long time and she goes to the window once, peering through the curtains to see him pacing along the row of cars, one arm waving in the air as he makes a point. She crawls back in bed and almost dozes off, but the soft click of the latch when he comes back in jolts her awake.

"What did Art say?" She asks through a yawn.

"Why aren't you sleepin'?" Ice clinks into the glass and he pours the whiskey, drinking half of it in one swallow. The bed sinks with his weight and the cell phone clunks onto the night stand.

"I waited for you." She watches as he pulls off his jeans and tosses them onto the chair with his shirt. He finishes his drink and crawls under the covers in his boxers, stretching out on his back.

"So what did he say?"

"I didn't call Art."

She raises an eyebrow. "Who'd you call?"

"Come're,' he says, opening his arms.

She snuggles against him, fitting her head to his shoulder. He's quiet, and even though she's curious about the phone call, she waits. Back when they were married if he talked at all, he would usually start just as she was drifting off to sleep. She's too wired to sleep right now, but maybe if she pretends it will have the same effect.

"Remember Elstin Limehouse? I told you about him didn't I? Down in Noble's Holler?"

"Is he the one who cut that other guy's arm off?"

"Yeah, that's him. I called him to see if he had a bead on Boyd. He keeps pretty close tabs on the goin's on around these parts. And he's the one Johnny went to when he got spooked." He tucks one hand behind his head, stroking her arm with the other. "He wasn't too happy about being woken up, but he said he'd send someone to have a look and let me know if anything seemed out of the ordinary."

"And if it is?"

He rolls over, propping himself up on one elbow, eye to eye with her. "Then I'll need to go and do my job. I'll call Art, but I'm the one here, and it'd take anyone else two hours or more. I'd call the sheriff, but he may be in Boyd's pocket."

She drops her eyes and twists the top of the sheet.

He reaches out and tips her chin up with a finger. Hey...I like the way things are between us. I like bein' here with you. But if I honestly need to go do my job protectin' Johnny, I will. I promised him that and I won't let him down." He eases back down, pulling her close. "But I won't go unless I really have to. I'm not lettin' you down, either." He kisses her. "Now, let's get some sleep."

She sighs. Everything she's read about the second trimester is true. She's not getting sick, she has more energy, and even with the soreness from the accident, she feels pretty good. The books are right about something else, too. She's horny as hell. Being this close to Raylan is making her whole body hum with desire. Maybe it's time to do something about it.

"Are you sleepy?"

"Not really, why? You wanna turn the TV on, maybe watch a movie?"

He's not picking up on any of her signals. Or worse, he's ignoring them. Either way, it's time to be more direct. "No. I definitely do not want to watch television."

Her hand is resting on his chest and she slides it down, under the sheet, over the flat plain of his stomach. Just as her fingers reach the waistband of his boxers, his hand clamps gently but firmly around her wrist.

"So that's it," he chuckles, holding her fast. "All this talk about two-hour drives and me bein' exhausted was just an excuse for you to get me alone in a motel room and have your way with me in my vulnerable state."

"Uh-huh. That's it exactly." Somewhere in the back of her mind she realizes this is a giant leap, even from the easy place they've reached these past few weeks, but she's not in the mood for a serious talk, so she plays along, grinning up at him. "You got a problem with that?"

"Not at all." He pushes up, sliding a hand into her hair and pulling her to him.

She kisses him eagerly, teasing his lips apart with her tongue, relishing the taste of the whiskey that lingers there. He tugs at her nightgown and she pulls it off, tossing it onto the floor. His fingers skim along the skin of her hip and she shivers, pulling her mouth from his and kissing the line of his jaw, ending at the soft skin below his ear. She tugs on the lobe lightly with her teeth and he sucks in a breath. Slipping her thumb under the waistband, she tugs at his boxers to free him. But before she can he's gripping her hand again, stopping her.

"What's wrong?" Her eyes narrow. "Are you still seeing Lindsay?"

He stares at her and his jaw twitches. "No." He shakes his head, as if to clear it and raises up on one elbow. "I don't cheat. I haven't slept with her since before we started talkin' to Henry. Not fair to her, or you."

"So, what's the problem then?" She bites her lip. "Are you still mad at me for leaving?"

His eyes slide away from her for a moment, then back. He cups her face in his hand. "I understand why you left, but..."

"But you worry I'll do it again."

After a moment he nods. "You blame me?"

"No, I don't. But I'm trying, Raylan, I really am. I can't promise I'll always be able to handle it, but I promise I'll never just up and leave without talking it out." She closes the distance between them, kissing him softly. "I love you. I've missed you. Make love to me. Please?"

His gaze slides down her naked body, taking in all the changes since the last time they were together like this. "You sure this is...I mean you're supposed to take it easy, aren't you? Maybe we shouldn't..."

She flops over onto her back with a huff of breath. "This isn't working for you, is it?"

"What?" He peers down at her, brow furrowed in confusion.

"This," she gestures at her belly. "The baby. You see me differently. The book says..."

"Forget the damn book." He scoots down, his face close to hers. "Yeah, okay, it's kinda weird knowin' he's in there..." he pokes her belly."...and all, but I think the evidence shows that you still get me goin'."

"I wouldn't know," she pouts. "You slapped my hand away before I could examine the evidence."

He laughs, low in his throat and presses his hips against her. "Feel that? There's your evidence. Satisfied?"

"Not hardly." She snorts.

"Oh?" He runs a long finger up the inside of her thigh. "Well, let's see what we can do about that."

-o-o-O-o-o-

She's standing with her back to him, looking out the window at the mountains shrouded in early morning fog. Damp from the shower, a towel wrapped around his hips, he comes up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and rubbing his stubbly chin along her neck. She squeals and laughs. "Stop it, Raylan! That tickles."

Moving his hand up, he cups her breast gently through the thin cloth of her nightgown. "How about this. Does that tickle, too?" He whispers. Her body responds before she does.

"Not exactly," she turns her head, smiling into a kiss. "Good morning."  
"Mornin'." He slides his hands down, over her belly, coming to rest on her hips. He pulls her back against him and she laughs.

"I thought you wanted to be at the bank when it opens."

"What's another fifteen minutes?" He shrugs and walks backwards, pulling her along.

"Fifteen minutes? Really?" She turns and puts both hands on his chest, giving him a gentle shove onto the bed. Gathering her nightgown in both hands she straddles him, smiling down. "I think it might be a little longer than fifteen minutes."

After, they lay face to face on top of the rumpled covers. "Someone's awake," she says. "Here." She takes his hand and places it on the rise of flesh just below her breast. There's a soft fluttering under his hand, like the wings of a trapped bird.

"You think we woke him up?"

"No, he's usually pretty active in the morning. I'm lucky. Gayle says Emma kept her up nights moving around."

"Let's hope it stays this way once he's born."

"That would be more than luck. From what I hear, that would be a miracle."

"At least you won't be doin' it alone," he says. "I got quite a bit of vacation time I can use, plus paternity leave."

"And I'll have Gayle," she says carefully.

"Well, yeah, sure. She's your sister."

"Who I'm living with." She sits up, reaching for her bra hanging on the chair by the bed. Leaning forward she slips into it. "Can you hook me?"

He leans up, fastening the hooks in the middle of her back as he mulls over her words. "So, you're still gonna live with Gayle till he's born? This was just a booty call?"

"A booty call?" She laughs. "Where did you pick up that phrase?"

"I thought it was more tactful than fuck-buddy," he says. He turns the boxers inside out and puts them on, pulling the jeans on over them. He turns his head to see her watching him.

"Of course I'm living with Gayle for now." She tugs the dress she brought to wear on over her head. "You don't have a house. I don't have an income. We're working on this, but..."

"But what?" He stoops to pull on his boots. You just told me you aren't leavin' again and now you're backtrackin'..."

"Raylan." He looks up. There's a half-smile curving on her mouth and she walks toward him in bare feet. "Nothing's changed. I love you. I told you I'm not going anywhere and I'm not. You think I'm going to what...move into that crappy apartment?" She arches her back, pushing her belly forward. "In another month I won't even fit in there."

He shrugs into the shirt and runs a hand through his still-damp hair. "You know I'm lookin' at houses."

"Uh huh," she says. "Have you looked at any more since the day we went?"

"Well, no, but..." he sighs. "Shit, Winona, there's been a lot goin' on."

"There's always a lot going on with you, Raylan." She stuffs yesterday's clothes into her bag, zipping it shut, and slips her feet into the same flat shoes she wore the day before.

This isn't getting them anywhere. He picks up the hat, sliding it on as he takes a quick look around to be sure they aren't leaving anything. "Let's get to the bank."

-o-o-O-o-o-

"I'm sorry I wasn't available yesterday afternoon, Marshal Givens." Vernon Collins is a few years older than Raylan, but he remembers him from school. Tall, thin, and bespeckled, with hair as black as the coal dust that covered most of Harlan, he'd run cross country and re-shelved books for old Mrs. McClintock in the library after school. He's still tall and thin, but there are no glasses perched on his nose, and his once-black hair is almost completely white. Still moving with the easy grace of a runner, he leads Raylan down a narrow stairway, unlocking two doors and passing the main vault before arriving at their destination.

He talks as he walks. "I like to take my son fishing at least once every other week or so. It's harder now that he's older - fourteen - he's busy with after school activities and his friends. Not as much time for his old man. Do you have any children?"

"One on the way," Raylan answers, surprising himself.

"Congratulations," Collins stops, holding the door open for him. "There's nothing like it. Nothing in the world."

"So everyone is tellin' me." He dips his head and gives the man a smile.

"Here we go." The manager slides a box out of the row on the wall. Rather than the small narrow box Raylan was expecting, this is larger, about the size of a shoe box, but deeper. Collins lays the box on the table. "I'll leave you to it," he says. "Buzz me when you're done." He points to the button on the wall. "There's only one teller here until noon so I need to get back upstairs."

"Thanks, but I'll only be a minute," Raylan says. He slips the key in and flips the box lid up. A flat manila envelope lies on top and he picks it up. His eyes widen when he spies what's underneath.

Both hands on his hips he stares down at the stacks of crisp bills. "Well, I'll be goddamned."


	29. Livin' in Limbo

"So," Art says, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back on the desk. His lips twitch as he levels a gaze at Raylan, part curious, part amused. "Openin' that box must've been quite a shock. How much money is in there?"

"A little less than a hundred thousand."

"You want to run the numbers?"

Raylan pulls a crumpled slip of paper out of his pocket. "I know it's personal but, yeah. I'd appreciate it."

Art reaches behind him for the phone. "It's personal to you, but it's also Marshal business. Arlo's still a federal prisoner. This is his property." He picks up the receiver and pushes a button. "Tim? " He says when the other marshal picks up. "Come're for a minute."

"Yeah, Art?" Gutterson wheels out from behind his desk and walks over to peer into the office.

"Raylan's got some serial numbers for you to run by the Secret Service."

He takes the wrinkled paper from his boss, glancing at the numbers scrawled there. "Sure, give me an hour or so."

"Thanks. Oh, and shut that door on your way out, wouldja?" Art goes behind the desk and eases into his chair.

Tim raises an eyebrow at Raylan. "What? You in trouble again?" He grins as he shuts the door behind him.

"So...somehow Arlo came into possession of a hundred thousand dollars." Art leans back in the chair, crossing his legs. "You think Boyd's got anything to do with it?"

"The box is in Helen's name too," Raylan reminds him.

Art picks up his coffee, taking a long sip. "Was Arlo the beneficiary of Helen's will?"

Raylan shifts in his chair. "I didn't know she had one until today." He leans forward and hands Art the manila envelope. "If Arlo knew, he never told me." Art slides the paper out and adjusts his glasses, running his finger along the page.

He looks up at his marshal. "So, you're it."

"She didn't have much."

"Well, there's what's left of the house at Indian Line."

"Yeah," Raylan says. "Might be worth somethin' once I get the bullet holes patched in the wall."

"Hell, just leave 'em. It'll give the place some Harlan ambiance." He chuckles. "You think it could be Helen's money?"

"Don't see how." Raylan shakes his head. "She wasn't workin' anywhere."

"That you know of."

"Don't know what she would've been doin'. I mean, she used to make 'shine, but as far as I know she hadn't done that for years. Anyway, no one's gonna put away a hundred thou on that."

Art nods thoughtfully. "So...how is Arlo?"

Raylan leans forward, elbows on his knees. "He's still hangin' on."

"You found the medical power of attorney, though, didn't you?"

"Yeah, and they disconnected the respirator but he's breathin' on his own."

As the doctor turned the machine off and slid the tube from his father's throat, he stood there with Winona, her cool hand pressed flat between his shoulder blades. Raylan didn't look at Arlo, he focused on the monitor's steady beep, expecting it to turn to the shrill note of a flatline at any moment. But it didn't. He lowers his head and rubs the back of his neck with one hand. It registers that he needs a haircut.

Even though it's barely past ten in the morning, Art reaches into the cabinet and brings out the bottle. He adds a splash to his coffee cup and pours two fingers in a glass, handing it to Raylan. "What do the doctors say?"

Raylan takes a sip, letting it burn its way down his throat. "Without a feeding tube, he'll basically starve to death."

Art sets the cup down with a clunk. "Well that sucks."

He shrugs. "They say it's peaceful. Probably better than he deserves. He won't feel nothin'. The coma is irreversible." He finishes the rest of the whiskey in one gulp. "Thanks," he says, holding the glass out to his boss.

"You want another?" He gestures at the bottle. "Wasn't expecting you back until Monday anyway."

"I do, but I won't." He stands, sliding the hat on. "I got an appointment to get to."

Art raises an eyebrow. "Winona?"

"Yeah," Raylan says, leaving it at that. "I'll check back in a bit."

"Alright," Art says, bending his head to papers on his desk. "Hopefully Tim'll have those numbers for you by then."

"I want to check on Johnny anyway." Raylan stops with his hand on the doorknob. "Your old friend Lou is driving him up the wall."

Art's head snaps up. "How'd you know I brought in Lou?"

"Johnny called me last night."

"And..." Art stares at him, pen in hand. "What exactly did Mr. Crowder want?"

"Evidently Boyd called him. Got him nervous."

Now Art looks pissed. He pushes up, hands on his hips. "You were going to tell me this when?"

"I just forgot, Art." Raylan slides the hat back on.

"You 'just forgot' about Boyd Crowder callin' our witness?" Art snorts.

"Yeah, well, I got a lot on my mind," he says. He looks at his watch. "Shit, I gotta go."

Art's voice follows him out into the bullpen. "We'll talk about this later, Raylan!"

-o-o-O-o-o-

"We can reschedule," Henry says, glancing at his watch.

Winona cranes her neck, but with the reflection of the morning sun off the window she can't see beyond the curve in the path leading from the house.

"Raylan said he would meet me here. I'm sure he's just running late. Otherwise he would've called." She shoots Henry a nervous smile. "Can we wait a few more minutes?"

"Why don't you and I just get started then. We can catch him up when he gets here." He flips his notepad open, pencil poised above it. "So, how have things been with you two?"

She flushes. "Fine. Good." Smoothing her blouse down over her belly, she turns her head again, hoping to see Raylan's lanky form hurrying down the path. No such luck.

Henry tilts his head, eyes on hers. "'Fine' doesn't really tell me much. Can you elaborate?"

Her face must be fifty shades of red at this point. She tells herself there's no way Henry can know she and Raylan slept together unless she tells him, but it feels like he can see what she's thinking. Clearing her throat, she stalls by telling him about the accident. She's up to Raylan's arrival at the hospital when the door opens.

"Sorry I'm late," he says, taking the hat off and placing it upside down on the low table in front of the couch. He sits beside her. "I had to run by the apartment to get somethin'." He tosses a crumpled water stained paper on the table beside the hat.

Henry takes the paper and unfolds it. He eyes Raylan over the top of his glasses, a slight smile on his face. "Thank you," he says, sliding the paper into his notebook. "Winona was just telling me about the accident. How did you feel when you got the call?"

Raylan huffs out a breath, rolling his eyes. "How do you think I felt?"

"I try not to project my possible emotions and reactions onto others," Henry says with a shrug.

"He was scared for me and the baby," Winona offers.

"I'd like to hear from him." Henry makes a note. "Is she right? Were you scared?"

"I was worried, sure." Shooting a sideways glance at her, he clenches and unclenches the fingers of his gun hand, stretching them. "Peter didn't tell me much, so I didn't know what was going on."

"What was the physical sensation like?"

Winona watches Raylan's face. He drops his head, sighing and she wants so badly to put a hand on his shoulder, to remind him that this prying, this self-revelation, is worth it if it means they can have something they'd both given up on. Something better than they've had before. Something that just might last.

"I felt sick," Raylan murmurs.

Henry makes another note and doesn't push for more. "So what did you talk about?"

"Huh?"

"When you got to the hospital and found out she and the baby were alright...what did you talk about?"

Winona jumps in again. "They did a sonogram, so we could be certain about the baby."

Henry slips off his glasses and levels a stern gaze at Winona. "You keep jumping in. You need to let him answer, or let him choose not to." She bites her lip at the rebuke and he turns to Raylan. "How do you feel when she does that?"

"She's just tryin' to help," Raylan says in her defense. He leans forward, one hand on his knee.

"She's speaking for you, which is fine with you, because you're uncomfortable with all of this," Henry says. "But it really doesn't get us anywhere."

Silence floods the room. The only sounds come from outside; the breeze rustling the plants by the window, a blue jay angrily defending it's territory in a nearby tree, a car door slamming out on the street. Henry waits, infinitely patient. Winona takes a deep breath, ready to say something, anything, to breach the impasse.

"Arlo had a stroke." Raylan's expression shows that he's as surprised at what he's said as she is. For some reason he's more comfortable talking about his father than whatever's happened between them in the last few days.

Henry accepts the change in subject, making another jot in his notebook. "Arlo would be your father?"

"Yeah."

"Why do you call him Arlo?" Henry lays the pad in his lap and steeples his fingers, cocking his head as he waits for Raylan to answer.

Raylan lifts and drops his shoulders. "Just do. Always have."

"Even when you were a child?"

Another shrug. "I don't remember."

"You said before there was violence in your family. Was Arlo violent towards you?" Raylan's jaw tightens and he doesn't answer. Henry goes on. "Using his first name is a way to keep him at arms length...to deny your relationship."

"I'm well aware of my relationship to Arlo." His voice takes on an edge of irritation. "I ain't pretendin' he's not my father."

"Do you wish he wasn't?"

His lips curve up slightly and he shakes his head. "Helen used to say '_Wish in one hand shit in the other and see which gets full faster_'."

"Who's Helen?" Henry asks. "Your mother?"

"My aunt."

"So," Henry uncrosses his legs and leans forward. "How is your father since the stroke?"

"He's dyin'."

Winona scoots toward him, reaching out, and he meets her halfway, fingers linking through hers. She feels Henry's steady gaze on them.

"So, would you say these crises have brought you closer?" He points at their clasped hands. They stare at each other not answering. "You do realize this is the first time you've touched each other here." He smiles.

Raylan's fingers twitch in hers, ready to pull away, but she gives a gentle squeeze and after a moment he squeezes back. "She wouldn't let me go down there alone." He murmurs.

"And you stayed with her after the accident."

They both nod.

"Sounds like you're taking care of each other."

"Tryin', I guess," Raylan agrees.

"Any fighting?"

"Only when he tried to stop me from going along with him," Winona says.

"Why didn't you want her to go?" Henry leans forward, elbows on his knees.

Raylan presses back against the cushions, creating space between himself and Henry. "I don't want her anywhere near Harlan."

"Why?"

"It's..." He sighs again and runs a hand through his hair. "...dangerous."

"So you're protecting her?"

Raylan nods slowly.

"How is it dangerous?"

"Too many ways to count." Raylan snorts.

Henry points a finger at Winona. "Give me a specific way she is in danger being with you in Harlan," he says, pen at the ready.

Winona watches Raylan's face, notes the tension in his neck and shoulders, and knows he's at a loss to answer.

Henry glances down at his notes and back up at Raylan. "Have you ever considered that maybe it's not her you're protecting?"

Raylan's eyes narrow. "Whaddya mean by that?"

"Sorry." He taps his watch. "Looks like our time is up for today." He smiles at them, eyes twinkling. "See you next week?"

-o-o-O-o-o-

"Whaddya think he meant by that?" Raylan is still puzzling over Henry's last question as he walks her to her car.

"I don't know Raylan." She bites her lip. "Maybe he means that...well...there are things about Harlan...about Arlo...that you don't want me to know because..." she shrugs. "I guess I don't know why. Maybe you don't even acknowledge them to yourself."

He leans against the car, crossing his arms over his chest, his face hidden under the brim of the hat. "I never wanted you to be a part of all that."

"Harlan?"

"Harlan, Arlo, Boyd...the whole ball of wax."

She walks over and stands next to him, mirroring his pose, staying quiet, waiting to see if he'll go on.

"When I first saw you, in that bar in Salt Lake?" His eyes slide sideways to her. "You smiled at me and it was like the light at the end of a long tunnel, bright and warm and..." he sighs. "I never wanted to come back here myself and I sure as hell never wanted to bring you here."

She laughs, low. "Then I ran away from you and ended up right where neither of us ever thought we'd be again."

He slides an arm around her and kisses her temple. "I guess I'm glad you did." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys. "I gotta get over to the motel and see about Johnny Crowder."

"Alright." She leans in and kisses him, quick and soft on the lips. "Here." She slips a plastic card out of her pocket and hands it to him.

"What's this?"

A small flirty smile plays on her lips. "I have an early ob appointment tomorrow. Peter's mom is there helping Gayle with the kids and the house is kind of crowded. So I got a room here at the Hilton for the night."

"Oh, you did, did you?" He's smiling now, too, flirting right back. "And you're tellin' me this because...?"

"I thought you might want to stop by for a nightcap. They have one of those outrageously expensive mini-bars you like so much." She lays a hand on the baby. "I certainly won't be using it."

"It _would_ be a shame to have all that over-priced booze go to waste. Not to mention that tonight is 80's night at the bar. Bon Jovi isn't really my kind of music."

She laughs. "So, I'll see you later?"

"Count on it." He turns and winks at her as he walks to his car.


	30. New Directions

"Ran those serial numbers for you." Tim sets his extra large slushy cup on Raylan's desk and slides him a paper. "They're clean."

He looks up from the real estate ads wondering if Tim is joking, but the younger marshal's face bears no sign of amusement. "Really?" He raises an eyebrow as he picks up the paper and glances at it.

"Not the result you expected?" Tim takes a long, loud slurp from the cup.

"With all that sugar you oughtta be a two-hundred pound diabetic by now." Every day around three Tim goes to the 7/11 and comes back with a giant red slushee. The thought of all that frigid, syrupy, cherry sweetness makes Raylan's stomach churn.

Tim is unfazed. Raylan watches more of the thick red liquid go up the straw. "They don't sell 'em that big in New York City anymore, ya know. It's against the law."

"Whaddya know...another reason to be glad I don't live in New York City," Tim says, taking another slurp. He pats his flat stomach. "I have a good metabolism. Like you. I also run five miles every morning and another five after work most days."

"_Not_ like me." A half grin pulls at the corner of Raylan's mouth. He studies the paper again. "So you ran all these numbers through the Secret Service database?"

"Yep," Tim nods. "And Interpol." He gives Raylan a huge grin.

"Interpol? Really?"

"Just for fun." His lips close around the straw again.

"Fun, huh?" Raylan is well aware that Interpol is notoriously uncooperative. "Slow day?"

"Yeah, kinda. I gotta relieve Lou tonight on the Johnny watch, unless you want to do it." There's a hopeful note in Tim's voice.

"Sorry," Raylan shakes his head. "I've got plans later."

"Those plans include Winona again?" Art leans over Raylan's shoulder to read the report.

Raylan shoots his boss a look and Art shrugs in response, but his eyes twinkle. "Just looking out for the welfare of my staff."

Raylan keeps his eyes on Tim's report, wishing he'd just loaded all the bills into one of the bank's zippered bags and brought them in. Then Tim could've run every one of the serial numbers. Of course, that would've meant letting Winona know there was more in the safety deposit box than the legal papers he showed her, and for some reason, he'd kept the money to himself. It's difficult to believe that Arlo, or Helen for that matter, had this much legitimate money squirreled away. He lays the paper down and looks at his watch.

"I wouldn't mind askin' Johnny a couple of questions," he says to Tim. "Why don't I head over there and relieve Lou and you come by in an hour or so? Bring 'em some dinner?"

The sky has turned dark and threatening and the motel parking reflects the dull gray of the rolling clouds. A streak of lightening splits the sky as Raylan raps his knuckles on the door. No answer. He raps again, harder, and when there's still no answer, he jiggles the knob and the door swings open. His hand is on his gun as he steps in, wary eyes sweeping the empty room.

Johnny's things are scattered on the dresser, the table, and from what he can see there are wet towels lying on the bathroom floor. Wherever Johnny is, he hasn't been gone long, and he's planning on coming back. Maybe he convinced Lou to take him out for a bite to eat. Or maybe he over-powered the old man and ran off. But there's no sign of Lou and no sign of a struggle. Raylan rules out an escape.

He pulls out his cell, about to call Art to tell him what's up and get Lou's number when it buzzes in his hand. "Givens." He can hear a tinny, off-key version of _You Give Love a Bad Name_in the background.

"Raylan, it's Lindsay." She clears her throat. "There's a guy here says he's a friend of yours. Came in a couple of hours ago and now he's in no condition to leave."

"He give you a name?"

"No, but when I said you weren't here he said that was probably for the best 'cause you weren't going to be happy to see him."

Raylan heads for the Lincoln, pulling the motel door shut behind him. "Give him the phone."

"Alright. Don't know if he can talk much. He's about to slide off the stool."

"Just give him the phone."

He hears Lindsay's muffled voice as he slides into the car, tossing the hat on the seat. "Come on now, take the damn phone. He wants to talk to you."

There's an unintelligible reply as the band shifts into _Pour Some Sugar on Me_. Looks like he won't miss 80's night after all.

"Raylan. That's who!" Lindsay is obviously losing patience. He's pretty sure if Johnny hadn't invoked his name he'd be out on his ass in the street by now.

He hears fumbling and Johnny's voice comes on. "Huh? Raylan?"

"Johnny?"

"Your bartender friend here is real pretty."

Raylan sighs. "Yeah, she is. What are you doin' there? Where's Lou?"

"You sleepin' with her? 'Cause if you are I'd never horn in on it...but if you ain't..."

Raylan turns the key in the ignition and wonders exactly how long this is going to take and how late he's going to be. He should probably call Winona. "Look, Johnny what the hell is goin' on? If Lou's not there with you you're out there without protection and who knows what Boyd is..."

"Boyd's gone."

The light changes and his foot hits the brake just in time to keep from slamming into the car in front of him. "Gone? What do you mean Boyd is gone?"

"Gone." Pause. "Skipped out." Another pause. "Skeddadled." Johnny chuckles and hiccups. "He and Ava both."

He turns the wheel hard, and the tires screech in protest as he rounds the corner. "What are you talkin' about? How do you know?" There's a long pause and he wonders if Johnny's passed out. Then the other man belches, harsh and wet, into the phone.

"Ellen May called," Johnny says. "Couple hours ago. Said Boyd came by the bar and emptied the safe. Ava argued, but when he left she went with him." He belches again and falls silent.

Raylan feels a strain on his patience and speeds up, tires hugging the curb as he makes the turn, one hand on the wheel. "Johnny, stay with me here...what else did Ellen Mae say?" There's another belch, louder, then he hears Lindsay.

"Oh no you don't! Get him to the restroom," she says to someone. Then she's back on the phone, her voice sharp and low. "Get your ass in here and take care of this, Raylan. Now."

"On my way."

-o-o-O-o-o-

The lights of downtown Lexington flicker in the window as she pulls the curtains and glances around the hotel room. The bags from her earlier shopping excursion are stacked neatly against the wall. There was a sale at Children's Place and two sacks are filled with things for the baby. Her shirts are starting to feel tight, so she picked up a few in larger sizes but the only thing she unpacked is the new maternity nightgown hanging on the back of the bathroom door. It's blue, Raylan's favorite color, not that he's here to see it.

She sits on the bed and picks up the pregnancy book, but she can't concentrate and the chapter on labor and delivery she's reading is giving her heart palpitations. Winona tosses the book on the nightstand and grabs the remote. She checks her phone again, even though she just checked it five minutes ago and knows there isn't any message. Her fingers hover over Raylan's number on the screen, but she sets the phone down with a sigh. She feels the familiar anger and resentment at evidently being cast aside for the job once again.

"Some things never change," she says softly, resting a hand on her belly. She's been talking to the baby a lot lately. The books all tell her that he can hear her, and it's comforting to have a constant companion; someone to bounce ideas off of who offers no opinion. Sometimes she just needs to think out loud.

"Henry says I need to accept that this is part of life with your daddy." She rubs in slow circles, her voice soft. "He says that no one is perfect, and anyone is going to have bad habits and parts of their personality that make us crazy. If you love someone, you figure out how to deal with it or you decide you can't and move on." She sighs, and smiles is spite of herself. "Moving on didn't work out so well. Guess I'd better learn to live with it." She clicks through the channels until she finds a show she can tolerate and grabs the room service menu.

When the room service cart arrives she's surprised at how hungry she is. She eats all of the turkey club and side salad she ordered for herself and the complimentary brownie that came with the meal, too. Now she's tired, and there's a dull ache in her lower back from all the walking she did at the mall. The huge whirlpool tub looks inviting. She pours herself a sprite from the mini bar and piles her hair on top of her head. She strips off her clothes as the water runs. Balancing the glass on the edge of the tub she's just stepping in when she hears the key card in the door. She steps back out and quickly wraps a towel around herself.

"Hey," Raylan says. He sticks his head in the bathroom door, meeting her eyes briefly before looking away. "Sorry I didn't make it for dinner." He sets the hat on the table and drops his keys and cell phone beside it.

"We can order you something if you want," she says, then sniffs the air. "Ew." She wrinkles her nose at the sour smell. "What's that smell? What happened to you?"

He tosses his duffle on the bed and shrugs out of his plaid shirt. "Long story." He toes off one boot and then the other and pulls off his jeans. "I'd better send this stuff to the hotel laundry. We don't even want it in the room."

"No, we don't." She agrees. She points to the plastic bag with the hotel logo on the counter. "Just put it in that bag outside the door and they'll pick it up. You should have everything back in the morning. What happened?" She asks again. "What's that smell?"

She hears a clunk as he places the bag outside the room and the door clicks shut. He walks into the bathroom in nothing but his boxers.

"You takin' a bath?"

He looks tired, spent, as if the past few days have finally caught up to him. That, or whatever happened tonight is weighing on him. Maybe he needs a distraction. "I was about to."

"That's a pretty big tub."

"I guess so." She shrugs and a smile twitches at her mouth.

He raises an eyebrow. "Room for two?" Reaching out, he presses his hand against the bulge of baby. "Or two-and-a-half?"

She drops the towel. "Why don't you get in and we'll see."

"I thought you'd never ask."


	31. Pillow Talk

"So Tim's watching Johnny Crowder over at your apartment?" Winona is on her side, chin propped up on one elbow, looking at him. Her hair is down from its twist and out of habit he reaches out and tucks a loose strand behind her ear. She smiles.

"Yeah, I dumped him on the couch and told Tim he could take the bed. All in all it seemed easier than loading him in the car and takin' him back to the motel."

"Especially after he puked on you." A grin twitches at the corner of her mouth.

"Oh, you think that's funny?"

"Well," she runs her tongue along her bottom lip. "Considering you're about to enter a new phase of your life where being spit up on will probably be a daily occurrence, it is kind of appropriate."

"Point taken." He flops over onto his back and Winona slides down to snuggle against him. He lets one hand rest lightly on her belly, fingers stroking.

"We need to check the schedule for the childbirth classes tomorrow," Winona says. "Don't let me forget."

"Childbirth classes? Like breathing and all that?" He exaggerates his breathing with a pained expression, huffing in and out a few times. She elbows him in the ribs. Hard. "Oww."

"Well, you deserve it for that. Anyway, I'm not doing natural childbirth. I'm going to have an epidural."

"Why go then?"

"The classes prepare us both for what happens during labor."

"Prepare us? More like scare the bejezzus out of us." He laughs.

"Thanks Raylan, that's helpful."

He looks down, trying to read her expression. "You scared?"

She shrugs. "A little. I mean, of course there's the pain and all that, but then kinds of things that can go wrong, especially when you're over thirty-five like I am. The book says..."

"Hey," he runs a hand through her hair. "It's just a book. You like your doc, right?"

"Um hmm."

"So you trust her. And I'll be there."

"Promise?" He hears a note of anxiety in her voice.

He tips her chin up so he can look into her eyes. Tonight there's a vulnerability there that she usually keeps hidden from him. His throat is oddly thick and he swallows hard before he says the words. "I promise."

She studies him, blue globes wide, locked on his. Evidently she sees what she needs because she closes her eyes and the breath goes out of her. "Okay," she says, quiet. "We can do this."

"Yes, we can." He wraps his arm back around her. "Will the doctor do another sonogram tomorrow?"

Winona shakes her head. "I don't think so. It's just a check up." Her gaze shifts up to his. "You're disappointed."

"Kinda." He shrugs. "It's nice seein' him. Makes it seem...real, ya know?"

She snuggles in tighter and slings one leg over his, running her foot along his calf. "We just saw him a couple of days ago."

She's right, he realizes. It's only been three days since the accident and Arlo's stroke. Three days and yet so much has changed. He takes a deep breath and they lie together in silence for a moment.

"Johnny told me Boyd and Ava took off."

"Took off?"

"Yeah. One of Ava's girls told him Boyd came in a hurry and emptied the safe at the bar. Ava argued with him, but when he left she went with him." He scratches his chin with his free hand and tucks the hand behind his head.

She pushes up again, looking down at him with that I-know-what-you're-thinking-and-I-don't -like-it expression on her face. "You going after them?"

He shakes his head. "Not unless it's Marshal business."

She arches a perfect eyebrow. "Is it?"

"It could be." He sighs. "But Art seems to want me to stay away from Boyd, so even if it turns out to be, maybe he'll put Tim or Rachel on it."

"What is it with you and Boyd?" Winona asks. "And how did Ava ever get hooked up with him anyway? Didn't she shoot his brother?"

He runs his fingers along her shoulder, sliding the strap of her nightgown down her arm. "You really want to waste this room and a night together talkin' about Boyd and Ava?"

She slaps his hand away and her laugh rings out, loud in the quiet darkness. "You're the one who brought it up. Besides, talking is all you're going to get. I'm not up for a victory lap tonight." Smothering a yawn she shifts back down resting her head on his shoulder. "Making your baby is hard work." She lays a hand on his chest. "Tell me about Boyd."

He snorts. "What do you want to know?"

"How did you meet him?"

"Don't ever remember meetin' him...just always knew him. Bo and Arlo were always either runnin' something together or tryin' to out run each other. Threw us boys together a lot. But I knew Bowman better than Boyd then. Boyd didn't play ball, Bowman did. Baseball, football, you name it. He was on every team there was, and he was usually the star. Bo had high hopes for Bowman. Boyd was always kinda in his shadow."

"I can't imagine him being in anyone's shadow."

Raylan tenses. Her intuition still surprises him sometimes. She's met the man what? Once? Twice tops? "Boyd didn't handle it that well. Probably why he signed up for the Army. That and hating the mine."

"Boyd was in the Army?"

"Yeah, that's where he refined his innate ability to blow things up."

"He blew things up before he joined the army?"

"That was his job in the mines. Demolition. But he always had a thing for it...fireworks, bottle rockets..."

"You worked in the mines for awhile, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"Did you work with Boyd?"

"Yeah." He turns his head, casting his eyes down to read her expression. "Why are you so curious about Boyd Crowder all of a sudden?"

"I'm not." Her fingers lightly stroke his chest. "I'm curious about you."

"Winona...I took you to Harlan..."

She interrupts. "Do you remember my high school boyfriend I told you about? The one who asked me to marry him?"

"Chad? Vaguely. Why?"

"He died," Winona says. "It was in the paper yesterday. Just a year older than me and he died from an aneurysm. He and his wife have five year old twins and a brand new baby."

"I imagine that would give anyone an aneurysm."

"Raylan!"

"Sorry," he says. He's curious how they got from Boyd and Ava and Winona's curiosity about his ties to them to this, but he holds back and waits for her to make her point.

"If I had gone the safe route and stayed in Kentucky I might have married him. Lots of girls did that...got married right out of high school." She blows out a breath, warm on his skin. "I'd be a widow now." She pauses. "And Gary, well, he sure didn't turn out to be a safe choice either. But here you are."

Her meandering thought process gets the better of him. "What're you gettin' at?"

She laughs. "It's just ironic, that's all." She scoots up, tugging the pillow under her head and he turns on his side to face her.

"Ironic that the 'safe' guys are dead and I'm still here?"

"Yeah." A half smile tugs at her mouth and she shrugs. "I guess you're just lucky."

"I feel pretty lucky right now," he concedes.

Laying a hand on his cheek she kisses him, soft. "So do I."

He deepens the kiss, tongue teasing hers, and she responds, rolling onto him, straddling his hips. "I thought you weren't up for a victory lap," he murmurs, gazing up at her.

Her lips curve into a smile. "I changed my mind."

_A/N Sorry this has taken so long and is rather short. Real life has been uncooperative lately. Hopefully things will settle down soon._


	32. Kicking and Screaming

Arlo dies on a Wednesday. Winona isn't there when Raylan gets the call. Kyle and Emma have a day off for a teachers' meeting and Gayle is up with the dawn loading Winona and the kids into the van and hauling everyone to the outlet mall just north of Cincinnati. They've already been there for a couple of hours and Winona is sitting on a bench taking a breather from all the walking and thinking about how hungry she is when her cell phone rings. Raylan's name pops up on the screen.

"Hey," she says, smiling as she answers. "How do you feel about soccer?"

"Soccer? Huh? What?"

"Well, he's kicking up a storm today so it's either soccer or that player that kicks the football." She tries to pull the word from her brain to no avail. "Shoot. What do they call him?"

"The punter," Raylan says. But he doesn't laugh at the joke or tease her about the evidence of her increasing forgetfulness, something the doctor assured her was normal.

"What's wrong?"

"Arlo passed." There's a sigh on the other end and she pictures him at his desk in the Marshal's office, hat off, running a hand through his hair. She hears him swallow and he clears his throat. "The hospital just called. I gotta head down there, make some arrangements."

Tucking the phone against her cheek, she reaches for her packages and looks around, hoping to catch sight of her sister. "Can you wait for me? I'll tell Gayle. If we leave now, I can be in Lexington in a couple of hours."

"You just stay where you are and do your shoppin'. I'm not makin' a fuss. I just wanna get there, get him in the ground, and get back home."

She opens her mouth to protest, but then reconsiders. Maybe he isn't shutting her out. He called, after all. Maybe he just really _needs_to do this alone. "Promise you'll call me?"

"Soon as I get there." He sounds relieved. "I'll be gone two days, tops. I already called the Holiday Inn Express. No way I'm stayin' at that house."

"Alright." She lowers her voice. "I love you." It's been unspoken between them, other than being stated during 'serious' conversations or hushed murmurings in the middle of things. Now she says it the way she used to, when it was something sure, something neither of them had ever doubted.

There's a pause, as if he, too, senses unfamiliar ground. "I know. I love you, too. I'll call you."

-o-o-O-o-o-

Raylan hangs up the phone and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. He stares at the computer screen and scratches down the phone number of the Harlan funeral home. Pushing to his feet he walks across the room and raps his knuckles on the door frame before angling in. "Hey, Art?"

His boss looks up, glasses perched on the end of his nose. It's only a little before noon, but Art's tie is already loosened, his shirt-sleeves rolled up. He has a stack of requisitions and expense reports in front of him and a scowl creasing his mouth. "No, you can't have an increase on your allowance," Art says. He sighs and leans back, tossing the pen on the desk. "Damn federal budget cuts. I don't know what else they expect me to do." He shakes his head. "You can't get blood from a turnip." Then he focuses on Raylan's face. "What's goin' on?"

"The hospital just called. Arlo's passed."

Art takes off his glasses, running a hand down his face and rubbing his chin. "Well, I'm sorry, Raylan. I know you knew this was comin' and the two of you had a complicated relationship, but your father is your father."

"Yeah, well, it looks like I'm gonna need a day or two to take care of things down there." He shoves a hand into his pocket and leans against the door. "Sorry about takin' all this time lately. I know it leaves you short-handed, especially with someone havin' to look after Johnny. I get this finished and I'm all yours."

"Until that baby is born."

Raylan nods, slowly. "I was thinkin' I might take a week then. If it's alright."

Art laughs. "A week? Listen, you got more accumulated vacation time than anyone in this office, includin' me and Twyla, that eighty-year old clerk in the records department. You're havin' your first - and at the rate you're goin' only - child. Take more than a week."

A half grin cracks his face. "I was thinkin' a week might be all **_I_** could take. Especially if she's still at her sister's. That house gets a little crowded."

"Can't exactly bring the baby home to where you're livin' though now, can you?"

Raylan grimaces. "I'm lookin'. I had the ads out this weekend, but..."

"You got a lot on your plate." Art nods. "Go. Take care of things down there. The rest will fall into place."

"Thanks, Art."

He bends his head back to his work. "You let us know the arrangements, alright?"

"No arrangements," he says. "Hell, I'd wrap him in a tarp and bury him myself if it wasn't against the law."

-o-o-O-o-o-

The low hanging clouds have given way to sheets of rain that force him to curtail his speed and make the drive to Harlan at least an hour longer than usual. By the time he pulls into a parking place behind the hospital, he's wound as tight as a drum. A dark silver hearse with _Stinson Funeral Home: Serving Harlan since 1960_ stenciled on the side is parked next to a wide door. A red arrow painted on the wall points to a sign reading '_Harlan County Morgue_'.

Raylan leans back against the headrest and closes his eyes, blowing out a breath. Instead of the relief he expected to feel he feels...nothing. He hasn't been miraculously freed from his past by Arlo's death and he's a bit chagrined to find himself disappointed at that. He should've known better. "Some things never change," he mutters to himself. He stares for a few moments at the closed door to the morgue before turning the key in the ignition and heading out of the parking lot. He might as well check into the motel. It's not as if Arlo is goin' anywhere. He can stop by the funeral home later, after he's helped himself to a little something from the minibar.

He's surprised at the number of cars in the parking lot, mostly late model SUV's and minivans. There's a cluster of big-haired, big-busted women outside the front door puffing anxiously on cigarettes and periodically glancing inside. They look him up and down and he makes a wide path around them as he walks toward the doors.

"Ladies." He tips the hat and forces a smile. Two of them burst into laughter and bend their heads together, whispering.

The lobby is full of little girls, some barely old enough to walk, hair in curls, dolled up like harlots. Looking at all of them he's truly grateful for the first time that his soon-to-be child is a boy. He weaves his way through the crowd of munchkins to the front desk and flashes another weary smile at the clerk. God, he needs a drink. Moments later he's smacking his palm on the counter. "What do you mean you don't have my reservation? I just called this morning." Raylan levels a stare at the overweight girl behind the desk.

"I'm sorry Sir," the flustered clerk says, pushing another key and frowning at her computer screen. "I don't see a reservation in that name. There must be a mistake. No one should have told you we had a room available. We been booked for months for the Little Miss Bluegrass pageant. It's a real big deal here." She gestures to the lobby. "We're all sold out."

"What about another motel?"

"I could call Mountain View Inn, but I already sent some other people there and they're doing some remodeling so all their rooms aren't available."

"I'd appreciate it." He manages a smile.

She turns her back while she makes the call, and when she hangs up the phone she's shaking her head. "Sorry. They're all booked, too. You could try the Rose and Vine. It's a sweet little bed and breakfa..."

His back is to her before she finishes. He dodges two tiny girls twirling in circles to make their ruffled skirts fan out around them. One bumps into his leg and falls to the floor with a thump, her mouth open in a round 'O' of surprise.

"Hey! Watch where you're goin'!" One of the big-busted women from earlier, with impossibly blonde hair and inch long eyelashes tugs the child to her feet. "Now you're alright," she says, bending to the child. "Don't cry, you'll mess up your make-up. I hope you didn't get that dress dirty." She scowls at Raylan. "Thing cost me $300."

"That dress is practically child abuse," Raylan mutters under his breath, pushing the door open. A hand grabs at his arm, stopping him, and the door smacks him in the hip. _What the hell_?

"What did you say?" It's the blonde again, and she's in his face, smelling like smoke and something flowery. The combination turns his stomach.

He wrenches his arm away. "Let her be a kid," he says, huffing out a breath. Before she can answer he's out the door headed for the car.

"Asshole!" The woman shouts after him.

-o-o-O-o-o-

"Little Miss Bluegrass? Really?" Winona laughs, picturing Raylan in a room full of beauty pageant brats and their mothers.

"Probably just as well they didn't have a room. I'da been surrounded." There's a pause. "I'm glad we're havin' a boy."

"They have boys in those pageants, too you know," she teases.

"No fucking way," he growls.

"Raylan, you know better than that," she assures him. "I'm not the pageant type."

She hears ice rattle in a glass and wonders how much he's had to drink. In the time they've been talking his voice has taken on that low, husky tone it gets when he's a little drunk. "So you're at Arlo's?"

"Yeah," he says, sighing. "I thought about sleepin' in the car, but that seemed foolish."

"You have any dinner?"

"I got some take out from the diner. Fried chicken and biscuits-n-gravy."

"Sounds good. And now you're sittin' in your daddy's house drinkin' yourself into a stupor?" She keeps her tone light, ribbing, not chiding.

"Wishin' you were here or I was there," he says, soft and the ice rattles again.

Her breath hitches. He's well on his way to drunk. He'd never say anything like that sober. "Not sure I'd be much company," she yawns. "Gayle wore me out today." She casts an eye around the room at the scattered packages. "I bought you something."

"Oh yeah? What?"

"Just a shirt and tie. It looked like you and some of yours have seen better days. You really ought to update your wardrobe."

He huffs a breath. "I like my wardrobe."

She chuckles. "I know you do and I'd expect you to get the same things, just newer versions."

"Maybe you should've bought me more than one shirt."

"I'll remember that next time." She stretches out on the bed, toeing her shoes off and adjusting a pillow under her back. Evidently the baby doesn't appreciate the change in position. "Ow," she murmurs as a kick catches her right below the ribs.

"What?"

"Your son is still kicking me."

"Hope he stops that once he's born," he says, with a laugh.

"Or gives you equal time." There's a lag in the conversation and she wonders briefly if they've lost the connection, service in Harlan being unreliable at best, but then she hears him take a breath and clear his throat.

"Rev. Howard called. He wanted to know if I'd allow him to say a few words 'fore Arlo goes in the ground." She waits, and after a moment he goes on. "He said it's the least I can do."

"Are you gonna let him?"

"He started goin' on about showin' respect and havin' closure and I finally told him 'yes' just to shut him up."

"When will you bury him?"

"Tomorrow, I hope. They're comin' to dig the hole in the morning." He says, and she hears him take a sip. "If you still wanna come down..."

It's not exactly an invitation, or a declaration that he needs her, but she has to take a deep breath and collect herself before she answers. "What time?"

"Probably late afternoon. Aw. Never mind. I hate for you to be drivin' back in the dark, even with me followin' you."

"I'll be fine, Raylan. I want to come."

"Alright then. That'll be good."

"You'd better get some sleep," she says, stifling a yawn.

"Sounds like you're the one who oughta be sleepin'. I'll let you go."

"Okay, goodnight, Raylan."

"'Night. Oh, hey, could you pick somethin' up from the office for me before you head down?"

She stretches, sticking her feet under the covers and thinking she might not even bother getting undressed before she crawls all the way in. "Sure. What?"

"I left the key to Arlo's deposit box. I think it's in my top desk drawer. I'd just as soon take care of everything and not have to come back down here for awhile."

"Sounds good to me."

"I thought it might. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"I'll be there."


	33. Memories

Raylan wakes with a jerk, disoriented. Head pounding, he puts his arm out just in time to stop himself from slipping off the couch. He groans and sits up in the dark, rubbing his eyes. He knocks the half-empty whiskey bottle onto the floor as he reaches over to turn on the lamp. The bulb flickers feebly, snaps, and goes out. "Shit," he mutters.

Standing carefully, he feels his way to the wall and flips the light switch. Nothing. "Goddamn it, Arlo." He says. He has better luck in the kitchen, but the brightness only makes the pounding in his head worse.

He rifles through the bag he hastily packed yesterday and finds the bottle of aspirin. Popping the lid he tosses three into his hand, washing them down with the watery remnants of whiskey from the glass on the sink. He opens the cupboard and finds the ever present Chock Full o'Nuts can. Thank God. He shakes some into the coffee maker, pushes the button and says a prayer. It sputters to life and soon the comforting smell of coffee fills the kitchen. There's no cream, but there's plenty of sugar, and he makes do with an extra spoonful of that.

The clock says 4 a.m. Too early to be up, but he knows well enough he won't be getting back to sleep, with or without the coffee. He looks around. All this is his now. He snorts a laugh. Maybe he'll just set it on fire - sit out by the drive with a bottle of whiskey and watch it go up in flames. He likes the idea, more than he should, but it's been a dry fall, and he'd probably end up burning down half the woods between here and the Martin place.

Walking around the living room slowly, sipping on the cooling coffee in his cup, he takes it all in. Sure, they'll need things, for the house, he and Winona, if they end up getting one, but there's nothing here he wants, except maybe the quilt he'd pulled over himself before he passed out the night before. He's pretty sure he remembers his mama working on it with Helen's help, and it's a good memory, one not shadowed by Arlo's violence. He'll keep that.

Back in the kitchen he pours another cup of coffee. He's hungry, but pretty sure the diner doesn't open until six or so. He chides himself for not picking up the two stale doughnuts sitting sadly under glass at the counter when he got his dinner. Topping off the second cup of coffee, he resumes making his rounds. In the dining room, he squints at two pictures hanging on the wall, one of Helen and his mama, young girls in dresses, standing with their parents beside a sign for the Harlan County Fair. Those grandparents were both dead long before he was born. The other picture is of his Grandma Givens, who died when he was ten. It's the only time he ever saw Arlo cry. At the time, the tears scared him more than fists. He takes the pictures down, setting them carefully on the table, and slowly climbs the stairs.

He pushes open the door to his old bedroom. Growing up this room was a refuge, especially the closet. It's fitted under the attic stairs and the ceiling slopes at one end. He would crawl back as far as he could get, pressing his hands over his ears so the screams and crashes didn't seem so loud. He clenches his fists, remembering. The only thing in the closet now is his letter-jacket, his name stitched on the front in loopy cursive, the fake leather on the sleeves cracking. Arlo wouldn't buy it, so Helen had, and he found it under the tree on Christmas morning the year he turned fifteen. He's got no use for it, really, but he slips it off the hanger, tossing it over his shoulder. He takes the _Harlan Hawks_baseball cap hanging on the bedpost, stuffs it in his pocket, and closes the door behind him.

The door to the attic is at the end of the hall, the steps steep and narrow. He flips on the light and climbs slowly up the steps, brushing away cobwebs and swallowing dust. Compared to the rest of the house, the small space is neat and organized. Cardboard boxes, clearly labeled in Helen's broad stroke, rest along one wall. Dishes. Fabric. Books. Winter Clothes. He moves the box of clothes aside and an unlabeled box clunks to the floor, its contents spilling out, scattering across the worn wooden floorboards.

"Shit," he says, bending to scoop up the scattered paper. It's heavy in his hand and he realizes the box is full of photographs. Some are old like this one, faded ovals of black and white and gray, stiff like cardboard, showing unsmiling men with beards and high collars and women with their hair pulled back, lace at their throats. He has no idea who these people were. He tugs at the box, pulling it out to the middle of the floor where the light from the one bare bulb illuminates the contents, and lifts the flap to replace them. A glint of blue catches his eye. Reaching in, he pulls out a book. _Baby's First Year_ is printed across the cover, the letters a darker blue than the book. He opens it. The first entry is written in a neat script that's not Helen's and certainly not Arlo's. Raylan runs his finger over the words - his name and the date of his birth - written by his mother over forty years ago. He starts to flip the page, then shakes his head. He's doesn't know why he's taking this stroll down memory lane. He doesn't know why he came up here at all. Replacing the book in the box, he folds the lid in and leaves it in the middle of the floor. Pushing to his feet, he turns back to the stairs.

As he takes the first step, he sees the cradle. It's tipped on one end, braced at an angle between the rafters and the doorway. He pulls at it. It's oak, and heavy, with carvings along the top and one side. He runs his hand along the wood. It's sanded smooth and varnished to a sheen. He considers it for a moment, then before he can think better of it, he wrestles it from it's position, shoves the box of pictures inside and hauls the cradle down the two flights of stairs, setting it down in front of the couch. He puts the pictures from the dining room in the box and takes his Mama's quilt, folding it haphazardly and laying it on top. This is all he'll take, all the legacy he wants or needs from this place, and for the first time since he came back to Kentucky, he feels just a tiny bit free.

-o-o-O-o-o-

She pushes the elevator button impatiently. Traffic was heavier than she expected on the way to Lexington and then she needed to pee. Seems like she always needs to pee now, and without the pleasure of her usual two or three cups of coffee. Pushing open the glass door to the Marshal's office, she's relieved to see no sign of Tim or Rachel. She's not in a mood for small talk. She just wants to get this stupid key and get on her way. The light is on in Art's office, but the door is closed. Maybe she can get in and out of here without seeing anyone.

At Raylan's desk she pauses. Crap. What drawer did he say the key was in? She should've written it down. She can't remember. Hopefully, she slides open the center drawer. No key, but a folded piece of paper catches her eye. She opens, it, and her own handwriting stares back at her. She shakes her head slowly, blinking back sudden tears. Why would he keep this? Swallowing hard, she replaces it, shutting the drawer. The top side drawer yields the key, and she slides it into the side pocket of her purse.

"Winona?"

The voice makes her jump. "Oh! Art." Her voice comes out in a squeak.

"Sorry to startle you," he chuckles. "What're you doin' here?"

She flushes, feeling inexplicably guilty. "Um," she runs her tongue over her bottom lip. "Raylan asked me to bring him this key out of his desk. It's for a deposit box, down in Harlan."

"You headed down there? How's he doin'?"

She shrugs. "You know Raylan."

"Yeah, I do," he sighs. "So are you headin' down there?" He asks again.

She nods.

Art sighs and dips his head, disappointed. "I asked him to let me know about the arrangements."

"There aren't any, really," she says. "Just a graveside."

Art slides a hand into his pocket. "Why don't I go down with you? I shoulda gone when his Aunt Helen died, Lord knows that was probably harder on him, but I was..." He pauses, and his eyes meet hers.

..._still angry about the money thing_, she thinks. Neither of them say anything. They don't need to. He knows, she knows he knows, and they aren't going to talk about it. That's how it's always going to be. She guesses it's no less than she deserves.

"It would be nice to have some company."

"I could drive. No reason for you to be taxing yourself." He pats her shoulder. "You look real good, by the way. Feeling alright?"

She nods, again, smiling. "I feel good. He kicks a lot, but I don't mind it."

"Faylene never did either. Said it kept her company. Then she'd just start worryin' when the kicking stopped."

"I do, too," she laughs. "But Gayle says he has to sleep sometimes."

"Just let me get my jacket," Art says.

In the parking lot, he holds the door for her as she slides into the passenger seat. She settles in, truly grateful for his offer to drive. This way she can ride back with Raylan and not have to worry about being too tired to drive herself.

They run out of small talk half way to Harlan. Art's hands are fidgety on the wheel, and he casts his eyes toward her a time or two, but he waits until they're just outside of town before he speaks. "So..." he starts, then coughs and looks out the window.

She stares at her lap and thinks about the note in the drawer. "I'm not going to leave him again," she says, softly.

He blows out a breath. "It's not any of my business, and God knows I know how frustrating it can be trying to deal with Raylan Givens."

Winona smiles. "But you don't want to see him hurt again."

"No," Art agrees. "I don't."

"We're really trying to do it right this time," she says, brushing a hand over her belly. "It's not just Raylan and me anymore. We're gonna have another little person to think about."

"Yep."

She chews on her bottom lip for a moment. "I do love him, you know."

"Never doubted it."

_A/N If part of this sounds familiar, you're right. I moved it from an earlier chapter. I think it fits much better here._


	34. Strange Bedfellows

The scrawny gravedigger swipes the hat off his head and scratches his scalp vigorously enough that a flurry of dandruff lands on the collar of his Carhartt overalls. "That's gonna cost you an extra fifty bucks."

Raylan peels the bills off and hands them over.

The man's companion shakes his head. "You sure about this? That there is a nice gravestone. Even if we can get 'er out in one piece..."

"I don't care how many pieces it's in," Raylan huffs. "I'm not bein' buried here. I don't want it. It's given me the creeps for thirty years. Just get it out. What you do with it after that is up to you."

"Alright then, you're the boss." The man walks to his truck, returning with a crowbar and flat shovel. "It's good stone," he says again.

"Resell it then," Raylan calls over his shoulder as he heads back in the house. "Or chop it up for gravel. I couldn't care less."

He showers in the tiny bathroom, tugging on the clean jeans and shirt from the duffel bag. A voice in his head that sounds a lot like Helen chides him for wearing jeans to the closest thing to a funeral Arlo will have. He's practiced enough at ignoring that voice, though. He rolls his dirty clothes in a ball and stuffs them in the bag, zipping it shut. When he glances out the window the gravedigger's truck is gone and so is the gravestone. His equipment is parked under the oak tree by the porch. They'll be back later to fill the hole once Arlo is in the ground.

He hears the crunch of tires in the drive and slides the hat on as he steps out onto the porch, expecting to see the hearse from the funeral home. Instead, Art's sedan comes to a stop in front of the shed. Winona is first out of the car. She's worn a dress, dark blue, and heels that make her wobble on the hard packed dirt of the driveway. Art pauses by the car, letting her make the explanations.

"He offered to drive," she says, with a shrug, meeting Raylan at the foot of the steps.

He gives her a quick kiss. "I'm glad you're here."

"Me, too. How's your head?" She asks, a smile curving the corner of her mouth.

"I took some asprin."

"I'd hope so."

"Morning, Raylan."

"Hey, Art," he swallows and holds out a hand to his boss. "You didn't have to come."

"Wanted to," he says. "Here." He hands Raylan a bag. "Stopped at the diner. Thought you probably hadn't had breakfast, and we could use some lunch so..."

"Thanks, I'm starvin'." Raylan holds the door open and they unload the sandwiches from the bag.

"The chicken is mine," Winona says. "I got you roast beef."

Art reaches past for the unopened container. "I haven't had chicken fried steak in a coons age." He winks at them. "Don't tell Faylene."

There's a rap at the door just as they're finishing lunch. Raylan answers and returns to the kitchen with a pained expression on his face and Reverend Howard in tow.

"Nice to see you again, Winona," the Reverend says, giving her a slight bow. He holds out his hand to Art, who has pushed up from the table. "Reverend Galen Howard, Harlan First Baptist Church, Retired."

"Chief Deputy Art Mullen," Art shakes, then shoves his hand in his pocket. "U.S. Marshal Service."

"Art's my boss back in Lexington," Raylan says.

"I'm glad to see you aren't alone this day."

Raylan barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. "As soon as the hearse gets here we can get this over with."

"Would you like some coffee, Reverend," Winona asks, playing hostess.

Raylan watches her move about the kitchen. Following some instinct he didn't know she possessed she easily finds a cup and sugar for Reverend Howard. The man thanks her and sinks into a chair at the table, pulling a small notebook from his jacket pocket. He looks up. "Did your father have any favorite Bible verses?"

Art raises an eyebrow at Raylan, pressing his lips together hard to keep from chuckling.

"Not that I know of." The aspirin has worn off and he digs through the bag for the bottle, swallowing two more down with the last of his cold coffee.

"Do you?"

"Do I what?"

The Reverend sighs. "Do you have any favorite Bible verses?"

"No, not really."

"Psalm 23 is always nice," Winona says. She catches his eye, and he can't help smiling. Her Biblical knowledge is evidently as sparse as his own. Maybe they should do something about that once this baby is born.

Art sets his cup down and leans back in the chair. "_For all have sinned and fall short of the Glory of God_."

"That'd certainly apply to Arlo," Raylan snorts. "I guess some of us fall shorter than others."

Reverend Howard looks at Art. "Romans chapter three verse twenty-three." He makes a note. "You know your Bible."

"That verse sticks with you in our line of work," Art says.

The reverend nods slowly. "I'd imagine it would. Are you a church-going man?"

"We're Methodists."

"I take that as a 'no'," Reverend Howard says, eyes twinkling.

Art chuckles. "Well, we do more than Christmas and Easter, but not that much more now that the girls are on their own."

"Church is good for children." He looks pointedly at Winona. "Gives them a firm foundation. Are you baptized, Ma'am? I know Raylan here is. His name is on the Cradle Roll in our nursery."

"I...um...yes." Winona stammers. "Mama was raised Catholic but we never went to mass." She shrugs.

"So you two don't have a church home?" He makes another note in his book. "I have a friend who's a pastor in Lexington. I can give you his..."

"LIsten Reverend," Raylan interrupts. "I appreciate your concern for our immortal souls, but I'd just as soon keep to the task at hand."

Winona turns from the window. "The hearse is here."

"Thank God," Raylan mutters. For once, Arlo has perfect timing.

-o-o-O-o-o-

The sun is a fireball in the west by the time they drive the winding road, mountains on both sides, heading back to Lexington. She sneaks a sideways glance at Raylan. His mouth is set in a line, the muscles in his neck coiled and tight. Reaching over, she presses her thumb into the curve where neck and shoulder meet, digging in.

"That feels good," he says, sighing. "It's been a long day."

"And I can't imagine that couch was very comfortable last night." She keeps up the massage, moving her hand to the base of his neck. "You need to relax."

"I can't exactly do that right now."

She pulls away with a sigh, folding her hands in what's left of her lap.

"Why'd you stop?" He glances at her. "Sorry, I've just...you're right. I was thinkin' maybe I'd take a couple of days off. We could go somewhere, or look at houses...what'dya think?"

"I thought you said Art needed you and this was it until the baby was born."

"Art said my head's not in the game and he doesn't want to see me until Monday."

"So," she chuckles. "You make it sound like it's your idea, when really..."

"Does it matter?"

"No, no." She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter."

The miles unfold in silence and the lights of Lexington appear. Raylan pulls into the parking lot at the bar. "Just let me get a few things and we'll head back to your sister's. If she doesn't want me there..."

"Raylan...it's fine. Gayle won't mind." She opens her car door.

"What're you doin'? I told you. I'm just gonna get a change of clothes and check on Johnny."

"I have to pee." She glares at him. "Your son is sitting on my bladder. You wouldn't stop back there and I've been holding it for over an hour. I can't hold it until we get to Louisville. I just hope I can make it up the steps."

"In that case," he says, holding the door open, "Ladies first." He follows her up the stairs, slipping in front of her to unlock the door.

There's a muffled oof and a high pitched squeal as they enter the tiny apartment.

"What the hell?" Raylan mutters.

A sheet draped figure scoots across the floor and the bathroom door slams shut. A man appears, clad only in his boxers. This must be the Johnny Raylan was talking about. He's built well, tall and rangy like Raylan, but his face is worn and pockmarked.

"Wasn't expectin' you back t'night Raylan." Johnny grins sheepishly. Then, spying Winona, he apologizes. "Beg your pardon, Ma'am."

"Get some clothes on," Raylan says. "And get your hooker out of my bathroom."

Johnny reappears, in jeans now, pulling a gray t-shirt over his head. "I didn't call no hooker," he says.

Before Raylan can comment further, the door opens and Lindsay, the woman Winona met the first time Raylan brought her here, slips out in skinny jeans and a camisole, her hair swept back in a ponytail.

"Hi, Raylan.'

"Lindsay."

"I'd better get back downstairs," she says to Johnny. "See you later?"

"Um...yeah. I'll be down in a bit."

Winona looks from Raylan to Johnny and Lindsay's back as she slips out of the apartment, then back to Raylan. She manages not to laugh outright at Raylan's obvious discomfort, but the corners of her mouth twitch and she looks down.

"I thought you had to use the bathroom," Raylan says through clenched teeth.

"I do." Johnny moves aside to give her room to pass. "Thank you," she says.

He nods.

When she comes out, Johnny is sitting on the bed, looking pissed off, and Raylan is at the dresser, stuffing things randomly into the duffel bag.

"So you kick Lou out, again...why the hell are we protectin' you anyway? You seem determined to pull stupid shit. Boyd and Ava are gone...so you say...maybe it's time you head on back down to Harlan."

"Fine by me." There's a familiar set to the man's jaw and Winona wonders if stubbornness is a Harlan trait.

"Good. I'll let Art know. Tim can drive you home tomorrow." He zips the bag shut and hefts it onto his shoulder.

"I was thinkin' you'd take me."

Raylan snorts a laugh and shakes his head. "I'm officially done with Harlan."

It's Johnny's turn to laugh. "That'll be the day."

Raylan ignores the comment. "We'll still want you to testify if we do pick Boyd up."

"I'm sure you will."

His hand on the small of her back, Raylan propels her to the door, down the steps, and back into the car. They're halfway to Louisville before she realizes he never introduced her.


	35. Moving On

_Sorry...but I'm doing a time jump here. I usually hate it when television shows do that, it seems like such a cop-out; but my goal has always been to wrap up this story before S4 of Justified begins, and at the rate I'm going, that will NEVER happen without a time jump. So here we go:_

**6 Weeks Later**

"So," Henry says, glancing down at his notepad. "How have things been?"

Raylan's eyes slide to Winona, who is shifting on the couch, attempting to cross her legs. It's harder and harder for her to get comfortable, and he knows she hasn't been sleeping well.

"Good, I guess," she says.

"You guess?" Henry's eyebrows go up.

Winona sighs. "I'm tired of being pregnant."

"I think the novelty has worn off," Raylan jokes.

Instead of laughing with him, Winona shoots him a black look. "My feet are swollen, my back aches, and I feel like a beached whale."

"I think you're beautiful." He's not just saying that. The pregnancy has softened her features and added some weight, although to his view most of it is boobs and baby. From the back, you wouldn't even know she was pregnant.

She flushes and rolls her eyes. "Thanks, but that doesn't help much."

"The final weeks of pregnancy can be stressful." Henry nods thoughtfully. "When are you due?"

"I still have five weeks to go." She scoots to the edge of the couch and pushes up. Raylan puts a hand on her back to help. "I can do it myself," she snaps.

"Yes, ma'am," he says. He sits back and watches, arms crossed over his chest, as she struggles to her feet.

She waddles down the hall toward the bathroom without another word, leaving Raylan alone with Henry.

"How are things going from your view?" Henry asks.

"I can't keep up with her moods, but that's nothin' new."

Henry makes a note. "Are you fighting?"

"Not really." Raylan shrugs. "She snaps at me like that and then five minutes later she's cryin' and sayin' she's sorry."

"I think that's all pretty normal," Henry says. "How are you coping?"

"I'm fine."

"No, I mean what are you doing to cope with the situation?"

Raylan cocks his head, puzzled. "I try to humor her, I guess."

"And when that doesn't work?" Henry says. "Like just now."

"You don't happen to have any beer in that mini fridge do you?" Raylan chuckles.

"That's an interesting answer." Henry pushes his glasses up on his nose and picks a folder from the table, opening it and flipping through several pages. "I've spent some time with the family history you wrote." He looks up at Raylan. "Your father - Arlo - drank a lot. You make quite a few mentions of it. Do you believe he was an alcoholic?"

"No, I believe he was bi-polar and he self-medicated with alcohol." Raylan raises an eyebrow as he rattles off his answer, hoping he's caught Henry off guard.

The therapist doesn't appear surprised. "You've done your research."

"No research," Raylan says, sipping his coffee. "That's just what my Aunt Helen told me the doctors said," he confesses. "If you want to know what I think, Arlo was just mean and liked to drink and fight." He leans forward. "As for me, I like a beer, or some whiskey now and then, but I've cut back."

"As long as you're aware that may be a trigger for you."

"He's aware," Winona says, returning. Instead of returning to her place on the couch beside Raylan, she chooses a higher chair, with a straight back. "Sorry, hon, my back is killing me."

"Are you aware that you just answered for him again?" Henry says, but his eyes are twinkling.

"She is." Raylan slides his gaze to Winona. "Are you gonna tell him?"

"I thought maybe you would've told him while I was gone."

"Tell me what?"

Raylan smiles, but doesn't say a word.

Winona smooths the front of her dress and folds her hands across her belly. "Raylan asked me marry him again," she says.

"And what did you say?"

She laughs. "What do you think?" She holds out her hand to show off the diamond and sapphire ring. "He wanted to do it before the baby was born but I told him I'd rather wait, so we're going to do it after."

Henry cocks his head. "Does he always do what you want?"

Winona flushes. "What do you mean?"

"You told me last time that you picked out the house you're renting, too, right?"

Winona pouts, defensive. "He didn't have that much time and he told me to..."

"But he said he thought it was too much money, right?"

"Well, yes, but it's in a nice neighborhood and I'll go back to work eventually. It's not like we can't afford it."

Henry leans back, crossing his legs. "When you two argue, do you compromise, or does one of you usually give in?"

"We needed a place to live." She huffs out a breath. "And there's not really a compromise to this getting married thing," she points out. "We either do it before or after, unless you're suggesting we do it during delivery."

"No," Henry chuckles. "That might get awkward." He makes a note on his pad and looks back up at Winona. "So, is there a trade? Does he get something in return when he makes concessions to you?"

She flushes more deeply and shrugs. "I guess you'd have to ask him."

Raylan is torn between feeling sympathy for Winona being put on the spot and his own interest in her answers to Henry's questions.

"Why do you want to get married before the baby comes?" Henry asks, refocusing on Raylan.

It's his turn to shrug. "It may sound old-fashioned, and I know no one blinks an eye anymore, but I don't want my son born illegitimate."

He turns back to Winona "And why don't you want to do it now?"

Winona shifts in the chair. "I don't know...I guess...I don't feel very attractive or sexy...and...I want it to be a special day..." She shakes her head, laughing softly. "That sounds pretty shallow."

"Yes," Henry says. "It does."

-o-o-O-o-o-

Tim hangs up the phone and swings the chair around, ripping several sheets of paper off of the printer and practically leaping across the floor to Raylan's desk. He slaps down a photo of a dark haired young man with a stubbly beard and a bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

"Alvin Pickett, 31, Ravenswood, West Virginia. Two arrests for possession with intent to sell; did time in the West Virginia prison system 2000-2004. Shot and killed right after meeting with this man," he slides a new photo on top of the first. "Carl Tighe. Feds have been trying to connect him with the Lucchese family in New York. He may have Miami connections as well."

"So?" Raylan raises an eyebrow.

"Feds think Carl Tighe is a money man. He makes pick-ups, pays the dealers or in this case the grower." He hands Raylan a third photograph. "Arial view of some land owned by Pickett's brother-in-law. See anything interesting?"

"That's not all corn."

"No, it's not."

"You still haven't told me why I should be interested in a dead West Virginia pot dealer."

"Because there were two strangers in town the night before Alvin Pickett turned up dead. A well-spoken man and a blonde woman."

"Boyd and Ava?" He looks at the photos again and shakes his head. "Shit."

Tim leans on the desk. "Bingo. Talked a to a friend at the DEA, and from the arial shots and what he knows about Tighe, Pickett's take was probably more than ten thousand, maybe as much as twenty." Tim sits on the desk. leaning in to show Raylan the figures.

Raylan chews his lip. "In cash."

"Most likely."

"And Tighe would probably only use clean money to make a buy. Boyd did his homework." He runs a hand across his mouth. "Seems to me Ava has some kin in West Virginia. Helen would've known."

"Would Johnny know?"

"He might. I'll give him a call."

Tim taps the file on the desk. "So? Road trip?" His eyes sparkle in anticipation. "We oughta at least go talk to the folks over there."

Raylan sighs, running a hand through his hair. "You and Rachel, maybe."

Tim stares at him. "You given up on getting Crowder? I know Art wants him as much as you do. He'll let you...

"Winona hasn't been feelin' very good. Who knows? The baby could come early and nothin's gonna make me miss this. Least of all Boyd Crowder. He's stolen enough." He twists the plain silver band on his left hand, still unfamiliar after only a week. "Anyway, Boyd's not stupid. He's gonna take that money and hole up somewhere for awhile. Hell, he might have family in those parts, if Ava doesn't. There are Crowders all over the place."

"You want to do some research on that?" Tim says. "It'd give us something to go on if we do head over there."

"I'll give Johnny a call."

"Sounds like a plan."


	36. Special Delivery

Gayle places a hand flat on the wall to brace herself and steps down from the ladder. "What do you think?"

Winona smiles as she studies the pattern of prancing horses, cowboy hats, and boots parading around the border high on the nursery wall. The same pattern, smaller, dots the dark blue crib sheet and the curtains hanging from the two narrow windows. Better yet, Gayle is the one who found all of it, marked down, at a department store in Louisville. Whether it's what she intended or not, Winona sees it as her sister's peace offering to Raylan and an unspoken blessing on this new re-marriage. "It's perfect. Thank you."

"Good. I'm glad you like it." She says, wiping her hands on a wet towel hanging from the door knob. "I think it looks good with the lighter shade of blue you painted the walls"

"I'm glad you could come over to put it up. Painting is one thing, but I can only imagine the damage Raylan would've done with wallpaper paste." The sisters exchange grins.

Gayle admires her own work. "I like to do this kind of stuff." Winona knows that's true, and Gayle certainly has experience. She redecorates her own house frequently, on the slightest whim, usually despite Peter's protests.

"You're sure the landlord doesn't mind? They can be pretty picky."

"He told us to do whatever we wanted as far as painting and stuff." She chews at her bottom lip. "I think he's hoping we'll buy it eventually."

"Do you think you might?"

"Raylan thinks it's more room than we need and too much money." Pressing a hand to the small of her back she pads out of the room and down the hall. Gayle follows her into the living room.

"Your back still bothering you?" Stepping close, Gayle begins rubbing in slow circles.

Winona leans into the back of the couch and relishes the slow release of the tight muscles under her sister's hands. "That feels good."

Gayle increases the pressure, using her thumbs to dig into a knot at the base of Winona's spine. "It must run in the family. My back hurt like crazy before the kids were born."

"I'll pay you to stay here and do that until Raylan gets home," Winona sighs.

Gayle chuckles. "I wish I could stay. You sure you're feeling alright? Besides the back, I mean, you've been awfully quiet today. Things are okay with you and Raylan aren't they? He isn't..."

"Things are fine, Gayle," Winona says, easing down onto the couch. "I cleaned all day so I'm tired, and my back hurts, and I'm cranky. I just want to have this baby."

"Well, you're about as ready as you can be, but if you're anything like me, you'll go past your due date." Gayle glances around, her eyes stopping on the boxes of Christmas decorations stacked in the corner. "Do you want me to put some of this stuff out before I go? Where are you going to put the tree?"

"We aren't going to use that one. Raylan wants to get a real tree. He doesn't like artificial trees."

Gayle purses her lips. "Well, that's just silly. A real tree isn't practical when you're gonna have a new baby. You'll be so busy and distracted that no one will remember to water it. There'll be needles all over the floor and a dry tree is a fire hazard."

"It's not a big deal, Gayle."

Her sister turns, hands on her hips and levels a familiar gaze at Winona. The one that makes her feel like she's seven again. "Seems to me that you're letting Raylan have his way about everything. Is that the way it's going to be this time? Are you so desperate to be with him that you're just going to let him walk all..."

"Stop." Winona tips her head back and closes her eyes. "Just stop."

She feels the cushions sink as Gayle sits beside her. "Sorry," her sister says after a few moments. "I'm happy for you, really I am. For both of you." She reaches for Winona's hand and gives it a squeeze.

"It's okay," Winona says, squeezing back. "I guess we're both formidable women."

"We're what?" Gayle laughs. "Formidable women? What does that mean?"

Winona scoots back on the cushions, wishing she could pull her knees up and curl into the corner, wishing she could find any position that was comfortable. Sometimes she can barely remember what it was like to have a body that belonged to her, without the increasingly unpleasant reminders that she is occupied territory. "Henry says that I tend to..." the baby kicks harder than usual, and she shifts, pressing a hand against her abdomen. She rethinks her choice of words. "All this counseling has made me realize that I can be a little bossy."

Gayle snorts. "A little?"

Winona laughs. "Like you have any room to talk."

Gayle doesn't argue. "Formidable. I think I like that. It sounds better than bossy, anyway." She pats Winona's leg and pushes up from the couch. "I'd better get going. Peter is picking the kids up from school, but Emma has dance tonight." She looks down at her sister. "Why don't you stretch out and take a nap. You've done an awful lot today and you're gonna need all the sleep you can get."

Winona nods. "Maybe I will." She yawns. "Thanks for all your help today. I just wanted to make sure everything was ready."

Gayle leans in and kisses her cheek. "Don't get up. I'll let myself out. Call me later."

Winona is already half-asleep when the door clicks softly behind her.

-o-o-O-o-o-

The gray December sky seems to have descended onto the road as Raylan makes his way back from posting notices on some confiscated property north of Lexington. The early evening fog is thick enough that he flips on his low beams, easing his foot off the accelerator.

When his cell phone buzzes he's happy for the new Bluetooth Art assigned to all the deputies that allows him to keep both hands on the wheel.

"Givens," he says.

"Raylan?" There's a high-pitched anxious tone to Winona's voice. "Where are you?"

"About twenty miles outside of town, why? You okay?"

"My back has been hurting all day and I think I might be in labor."

His heart rate doubles in an instant and the car seems very warm. He pushes the button to crack the window and takes a deep breath. This isn't unexpected. Her due date is only two weeks away and the doctor told them it could be anytime. They're ready for this. "You sure it's not those fake contractions again?" They were sent home from the emergency room last week because of those.

"It doesn't feel like it. This feels different. Ohhhh..." She gasps and breathes heavily into the phone.

He peers into the mist and speeds up as much as he dares. "Have Gayle drive you to the hospital and I'll meet you there."

"Gayle left a couple of hours ago. She had to take Emma to dance," she says, her voice tight. "I'd drive myself but..."

"No. Don't do that. Stay where you are. It's gettin' foggy. I'll be there as soon as I can. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes," he assures her.

"Okay," she breathes. "But hurry. I'm _not_having this baby in the living room."

"That's not going to happen," he says, reassuring her. "It's probably gonna be awhile. I'm on my way."

He clicks off and speeds up again, hitting the brake just in time as taillights appear in front of him. Both lanes of traffic are stopped. Swearing under his breath he pulls to the berm of the road and inches along to the next exit, taking the ramp onto an unfamiliar dimly lit road. It's going to take longer going through town, but it's better than sitting in traffic for God knows how long. Maybe she should call an ambulance, just in case. He hits the redial button on the phone. It rings and rings, but she doesn't answer.

Worried, he calls three more times as he weaves the car through the evening traffic, but there's still no answer. The fog isn't nearly as bad in town, but between overly cautious drivers and holiday shoppers, it's almost thirty minutes by the time he pulls into the driveway.

"Winona!" He calls as he rushes through the front door. He spies her cell phone on the couch, green light blinking with missed calls. He scoops it up and heads for the kitchen. "Winona! Where the hell are you?" This house is too damn big. He takes long strides down the hall, past the room they'll use for the nursery, calling her name.

In their bedroom, still crowded with plastic tubs of clothing, the bathroom door is open, light streaming out. Her voice comes, breathless, somewhere between a groan and a sob. "Raylan? I'm in here."

When he peers into the bathroom, his stomach drops. Winona is on the floor, knees up, back pressed against the wall, her damp hair hanging down to her shoulders. She's clutching a blue towel that barely wraps around her bulging belly. Her eyes wide and frightened. "I think he's coming. This is a lot faster than they said it would be." Another wave of pain over takes her and she closes her eyes and bites her lip, tears streaming down her face.

"Shit!" Raylan crouches beside her on the floor, his fingers fumbling over the buttons on her unfamiliar cell phone. "What are you doing in here anyway? I tried to call."

"I wanted to take a shower and wash my hair!" She sobs. "I didn't want to go to the hospital all grungy..."

The corners of his mouth turn up unbidden and her eyes blaze. "Don't you dare laugh, Raylan Givens!

"I'm not laughing," he says, dipping his head and punching the three numbers into the phone.

"Then my water broke in the shower and the towel won't even go all the way around me and you have to get me something to put on before we leave and..." She hiccups another sob and closes her eyes.

"We aren't goin' anywhere, at least not on our own. I'm callin' an ambulance."

Thankfully, his call goes through and the operator answers.

"911 what is your emergency?" The operator's voice echoes off the tile.

"We...my...my...wife is havin' a baby," he stutters, momentarily stunned by the reality of his words.

"What is the address?"

He can't come up with the house number. He mouths the question to Winona and she rattles it off.

"I'm sending an ambulance."

Another contraction hits Winona hard and she cries out.

"But...I mean...I think she's havin' the baby right now." He's never felt so helpless.

"Okay, okay," the operator's voice goes calm and soothing. "Is this her first baby?"

"Yes."

"How far along is she?"

"Pretty damn far, I'd say." Raylan snaps.

"I mean how many weeks along?"

"Um...she's due the end of next week."

"All right. We've got an ambulance on their way to you. Do you have a watch?"

"Yes."

"I want you to time the next contraction."

When it hits a few minutes later, Winona grimaces again, breathing heavily, and he watches the seconds tick away. "That one was a little more than a minute."

"Okay...put the phone on speaker. You need to check for me. Can you see the baby's head?"

They didn't cover this in the childbirth class. He's supposed to be holding Winona's hand and telling her what a great job she's doin', and letting the doctor do her job. But the doctor isn't here, so if it's happening now it has to be him. Winona gasps again as he lifts the towel to check.

"I can't see much of anything," he tells the operator. It's the truth, but he didn't look that close.

"Okay...okay...can you wash your hands or use sanitizer?"

He nods affirmative, rising to turn on the water, then realizes she can't hear him. "I'm washin' my hands now."

"Alright, when they're clean, just feel around."

He follows her directions, keeping his eyes on Winona's as he reaches down.."Yeah, I can feel somethin' there." He says to the operator.

"You need to get a towel or a blanket under her and something to cover the baby with so it doesn't get cold."

"I'll be right back," he says to Winona.

She grabs at his hand. "Raylan, don't you _dare_leave me alone."

"You aren't alone," the operator says. "My name is Marie and I'm right here. He's just going to get something to make you more comfortable."

"The only thing that's going to make me more comfortable is being at the hospital where I'm supposed to be," she sobs.

"We'll get you there," Marie soothes. "Bring a pillow, too," she suggests to Raylan.

He gathers the supplies from the bedroom, shrugging off his jacket and throwing it on the chair. Back in the bathroom he puts the pillow behind her and helps Winona settle onto the blanket.

"You should wash your hands again," Marie says.

Another contraction hits Winona as he's drying off. "Owwww! Goddamn it, that hurts!" She glares up at Raylan. "I was supposed to have an epidural, dammit."

"I know, I know," he soothes.

"This is all your fault," she mutters through clenched jaws. "You did this to me."

"My fault?" He hisses. "You were the one who..." He stops himself. This is what they talked about in the childbirth classes. They had some fancy name for it, but what he remembers is that right now she's frustrated and in pain and focusing all her energy on being pissed off at him. He oughta be used to that. This should be a breeze.

"Listen," Marie says, her voice serious. "The ambulance is stuck in traffic because of this fog. As close as her contractions are, it looks like this baby is going to get here before they do."

"No, no, no!" Winona shakes her head and turns a tear-streaked face to him. "I don't want to have our baby on the bathroom floor...I want to go to the hos..." Another pain takes over and she grips his offered hand hard. "Okay," she breathes after it passes. "Okay."

"If she feels like she needs to push, tell her it's okay to push. You can do this," the operator says.

Raylan leans over, his face close to Winona's. "You can push. Go ahead. It's okay. I'm here and the ambulance is on its way. It's okay. Think of the story we'll have to tell him."

"You and your damn stories," Winona mutters, but she nods, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.

"Next one, have her push. Just guide the head out and support it."

The next contraction comes quickly and he doesn't have time to think before the baby's head is in his hands and Winona is grunting and crying, pounding her fist on the floor. "Okay, I've got it," he says.

"It should start to turn slightly so the shoulder can come out..."

Before the operator finishes her sentence Winona screams, pushing hard, and his son slides all the way out, warm and slick. The baby makes a hiccuping sound and his wailing fills the small room.

"Sounds like we have a baby," Marie says. "Congratulations. You can lay him on Mama's stomach. Don't worry about cleaning him up, just keep them both warm. The ambulance should be there in a few minutes."

"Let me see him. Let me see him," Winona demands. "Is he alright?" She raises up on one elbow.

Raylan stares at the baby, speechless, his heart pounding.

"Raylan," Winona prods. "Is he okay?"

"He's perfect." His hands shake as he lays him on her stomach and tucks the blanket over him.

He wraps another blanket around Winona's shoulders and shifts, leaning against the wall beside her. They both stare at the baby, his tiny fingers curled into a fist. His eyes are bright and blue and he has a shock of dark hair slicked against his head. Winona strokes the baby's head with a finger. "You're right, he is perfect," she murmurs.

"Yeah," he says, leaning in to kiss her. "And you aren't bad yourself. You did great."

She smiles at him through new tears. "So did you," she says, her voice warm and husky. I don't know what I would've done if you weren't here."

"I promised you I would be," he reminds her. The sound of sirens approaches. "I'd better let 'em in so we can get the two of you to the hospital."

-o-o-O-o-o-

_A/N To quote Gone With the Wind "I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies!" So this chapter was a challenge. I knew how I wanted it to happen, so I did some online research (always dangerous) and plotted it out as best I could. I hope those of you who have actually gone through childbirth find it at least somewhat plausible. _  
_Merry Christmas and thanks to those of you who have stuck with this story!  
_


	37. Round and Round

She switches the baby to the other breast, stroking his head lightly to wake him so he latches on sleepily. He sleeps in a bassinet beside their bed, so she wouldn't have to come in here to nurse, but she likes the slow sliding movement of the rocking chair Art and Faylene gave them and she wants the baby to get used to the nursery.

"This is your room," she says, soft. "There's your crib. See the horseys?" She points to the mobile dangling above. "That's from Daddy's friend Rachel. You're a lucky boy. You've got lots of people who love you. Yes, you do." She rubs a finger along his cheek as he continues to suckle.

"You're gettin' pretty good at that, Mama," Raylan says. She looks up to see him leaning in the nursery doorway, smiling at them.

"What're you doing up?" Her words are followed by an inescapable yawn. She's tired to her bones. The baby is up every three or four hours demanding attention, usually the kind only she can provide. She hasn't had time to master the breast pump Gayle provided so that Raylan could relieve her of some of the work.

"Doesn't seem gentlemenly to roll over and go back to sleep when you don't have a choice."

"You can't sleep, can you?" She says. He's always been a lousy sleeper and being off work puts him at loose ends.

"Nah, I'm wide-awake now."

Her eyes flick down to their son, who fortunately doesn't seem to share his daddy's insomnia. He's obviously done with his early breakfast. She shifts the sleeping infant to her shoulder, buttoning up the front of her gown with the other hand.

"Here," Raylan is at her side in two long strides, reaching down for the baby. "I'll take him." They make the transfer and he cradles the baby against his chest as she uses both hands to push carefully up from the rocker, wincing with the effort. She's still sore, but getting up and down is the worst. Her abdominal muscles hurt more than anything, as if she did a million sit-ups.

She steps in close and tips her head up for a kiss. He obliges, his lips soft on hers. "Mornin'," he murmurs.

"Morning. What time is it?" She asks, stifling another yawn.

"A little after five," he says. "Like I said, I'm not goin' back to sleep. Why don't you rest for awhile? I got some things to take care of this morning and I'm supposed to have lunch with Art, but I won't leave until Gayle gets here."

She rolls her eyes at him. He's been hovering, hardly letting either her or the baby out of his sight, and while it's surprisingly sweet, it's starting to get on her nerves. She can't quite believe it, but she's actually glad he's heading down to Harlan today to take care of the last of Arlo's business. It will give her a chance to breathe.

"I can be alone with him for a little while, Raylan. It's alright."

"I guess it would be good to get an early start, beat the traffic through town."

"Go," she says. "Take a shower and get out of here. I'll get a nap in later. I'm learning to sleep when he does."

"Alright," he nods and gives her another quick kiss as he passes the baby back to her. "I shouldn't be late. I'll keep my cell on and you call me if you..."

"Raylan, we'll be fine. Women do this everyday," she reminds him. She plants her free hand on his chest and gives a little shove. "Go."

He laughs. "Okay, I'm goin'."

-o-o-O-o-o-

Twinkling Christmas lights of red and green frame the door of the bar. Raylan pushes it open and walks in, blinking as his eyes adjust to the dimness. A bedraggled Christmas tree leans in one corner, a dozen tacky ornaments hanging on its sparse branches, and a gaudy silver and gold garland adorns the bar. "I can see you've spared no expense with the decorations. All you need is the fuzzy red hat and you'd be a dead-ringer for Santa himself," Raylan calls out to the tall man behind the bar.

"My beard's not white enough," Johnny drawls, leaning forward across the bar. ""What're you doin' down here? Heard you just had a baby. Delivered it yourself and all from what they're sayin'. The legend of Raylan Givens just keeps gettin' bigger." He winks.

Raylan sighs, but remains silent, amazed at how the intimate details of his life have already made it to Harlan in a short two-week's time.

"Congratulations, by the way." Johnny pours a shot of his best Woodbridge, sliding it to Raylan, and another for himself.

"Thanks," Raylan says. He raises the glass to Johnny's with a soft clink and swallows down the smooth as silk whiskey, closing his eyes briefly to savor the burn. "I'm still off the clock. Had to sign some papers for Arlo's estate, what there is of it. Wanted to drop in and run somethin' by you."

Johnny raises an eyebrow. "Shoot."

"Don't I remember Ava havin' some cousins down in West Virginia?"

Johnny rubs his fingers across his chin. "They'd be on her daddy's side if she did. Her mama's from around these parts." He takes another sip of his drink. "Ava's daddy had him a sister, I do know that. She came to visit once after her brother ran off on Ava's mama. Had herself a couple of kids. Can't remember her married name though. Why you askin'?"

"What about Boyd? Any Crowders over that way you know of?"

Johnny takes his time answering, wiping down the bar. "There's some Crowders in Delbarton. That's right across the state line, but there's more in Virginia." He pulls a lime out from under the counter and starts slicing it. "My daddy had cousins in Roseville and I think over around Dungannon, too."

He tosses the lime sections into a bowl and raises the whiskey bottle to pour another shot but Raylan lays a hand over the glass. "No thanks, it's a long drive back." He leans an elbow on the bar. "Your daddy or Bo close with any of those cousins?"

"I get it," Johnny chuckles. "You're thinkin' Boyd's hidin' out with some long lost relative." He shakes his head. "I don't think so. More'n likely he 'n Ava are in Mexico by now."

Raylan mulls over Johnny's words. He narrows his eyes, studying the other man from under the hat. It wouldn't be the first time Johnny played both sides against the middle. "Mexico, huh?" He keeps his tone light. "You know somethin' I don't know?"

Johnny's eyes shift down slightly before he meets Raylan's gaze, and with a sinking feeling Raylan is certain his instincts are correct. A year ago he'd have drawn his gun and been over the bar at this point, but now he takes a deep breath, placing his hands flat on the bar and leveling a killer stare at his old friend. "So, you're standing there on two feet, pain-free courtesy of the U.S. Marshal Service, and you're tellin' me you've had contact with Boyd and you haven't reported it."

"I'm reportin' it now," Johnny says, tossing the bar rag over his shoulder. "Ain't I?"

-o-o-O-o-o

"So," Art says between bites of his Reuben. "Boyd and Ava are in Mexico?"

Raylan shrugs, pushing the cold fries around on his plate. "All Johnny knows is that's where they were headed."

Art swipes a stray piece of sauerkraut from the edge of his mouth with his napkin. "How long's he been in contact with Boyd?"

"I have no idea. Shit!" Raylan pounds a fist on the table. The dishes rattle and the waitress shoots them a worried look, hurrying over with coffee pot raised.

She shifts nervously from one foot to another, her shoes squeaking on the diner's ancient linoleum floor. "Can I get you gentlemen anything else?"

Art waves her off. "We're fine."

"I wanted to believe Johnny was on our side, so I did," Raylan snorts. "My instincts should've told me better."

"Maybe they were talking but you weren't listening." Art raises an eyebrow but the eye underneath is twinkling. "Look, Raylan...if Boyd comes back, Johnny is still under obligation to the U.S. Government to testify against him for Devil's murder. If we have to we can subpoena him and force the issue. I know you're feelin' burned, but you really haven't been, not yet." He digs his wallet out of his jacket pocket. "I've got this." He picks up the check and eases out of the booth.

Raylan shrugs into his jacket and throws a couple of bucks on the table for a tip before following his boss.

Johnny probably feels a lot safer thinkin' Boyd is south of the border," Art says, pocketing his change.

The two men look at each other. "Son of a bitch," Raylan says. "That'd be just like Boyd to double back and take care of things while Johnny's got his guard down."

"Or send someone to do it for him." Art nods slowly.

"I'd better head back down to Harlan and warn..." Raylan's hand hovers above the door handle.

"_You_ aren't going anywhere," Art says, pulling out his cell phone. "_You _are on paternity leave until after the first of the year." He shakes his head at his most frustrating marshal. "You've obviously forgotten in the sleepless daze of your new fatherhood that I strictly forbid you from bein' on the Harlan end of things in this case. I'll get Lou down there to keep an eye on Johnny."

"But..." Raylan starts.

"No buts. You. Go. Home," Art says the words slowly, as if talking to a child. "Lou will handle things. Hell, he'll probably be happy to have somewhere to spend the holiday."

"I guess that's even better," Raylan allows himself to admit. "Maybe they have a very special Christmas episode of _American Hoggers_. Johnny'll hate that."

"No less than he deserves. Merry Christmas, Raylan." Art slaps him on the back. "Go on home and spend some more time with Winona and little Lucas Arthur."

Raylan grins. "You gonna use his middle name whenever you talk to him? Poor kid's gonna think he's always in trouble."

"Like father like son." Art says, but he's smiling.  
-o-o-O-o-o-

Waking slowly from her nap, Winona stretches under the quilt. With a start, she glances into the bassinet, but the baby isn't there. Resisting the urge to run searching for him, she goes to the bathroom and splashes some water on her face and runs a brush through her hair. It seems like forever since she's had a moment to herself. "Now I remember. This is a lot easier with two hands," she tells her reflection, laughing softly.

Back in the bedroom she slips back into her jeans, pulls her favorite soft blue sweater on over her shirt, and makes her way down the hall to the family room.

She smiles when she spies them on the couch. Her two boys are both asleep, Luke pinned against Raylan's chest by one broad hand. ESPN is on the television and the bottle of breast milk Gayle helped her pump, empty now, sits on the table, right beside an empty beer bottle. Tiptoeing quietly past, she grabs the camera from the bookshelf and kneels to get a better angle. Luckily, there's enough afternoon light from the family room window that she doesn't need to use the flash. She manages to snap several shots without waking them. She's clicking through to look at the pictures, happy with the results, when Raylan stirs and stretches, yawning.

"Hey," he mumbles.

"Hey yourself. Did you have a nice nap?"

He smiles without opening his eyes. "Yes, did you?" He pulls his feet in and she fits herself into the space on the end of the couch, leaning against his legs.

"I can't believe I slept for..." she glances at the clock on the fireplace mantle. "...four hours. When did you get home?"

"Gayle said you'd just laid down, but you were already dead to the world. I grabbed him so he wouldn't fuss and wake you up. We came out here and watched some football until he got hungry. She showed me where the bottles were and how to heat 'em up, so he had a snack and I had a beer..."

"And then you took a nap, too."

"We did. Looks like someone is still nappin'."

"I hope he wakes up soon," Winona says, shifting uncomfortably. "I need to nurse."

As if on cue, little Luke stirs, blinking and crinkling his forehead. His mouth works for a minute before he whimpers and Winona reaches for him, tucking him into her arm and opening her shirt. Raylan shifts to sit beside them, throwing a long arm around her shoulder, watching.

"Are you hungry? Gayle brought lasagna. It's in the fridge."

"Sounds good."

An hour or so later Winona pushes her empty plate away and takes a long swallow from the bottle of beer. "God, I missed this," she says, waving it at him before setting it down on the table.

Raylan looks across at her skeptically. "You sure it's okay to have that while you're nursin'?"

"Yes, Raylan," she sighs. "The doctor said it's fine. It can even help with milk production, and since Luke just nursed before we ate, the alcohol will be out of my system by the time he's hungry again."

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, then, drink your beer," he chuckles, taking a sip of his own. "How was your day?"

"It was good. I think I've got the hang of pumping, so we can share the middle-of-the-night duty, a little anyway."

"That's good," he says, helping himself to a second piece of lasagna. "You can get more sleep."

"You're awfully hungry," she notes. "Didn't you meet Art for lunch?"

He chews a bite and drains the bottle of beer. "Yeah, but I was too wound up to eat much."

"What's going on? Something with the estate?" She leans forward, elbows on the table, giving him all of her attention for the first time in days.

"No, just more shit with Boyd and Johnny."

"I thought you said Boyd and Ava were gone."

"They were - are - I think, but I needed to ask Johnny some questions so I stopped by the bar." He gets up from the table and grabs another beer from the fridge, twisting the cap off and taking a long swallow. "Johnny's been in contact with Boyd and he didn't tell me. He seems to think they're headed to Mexico, but..." he shakes his head, flipping the bottle cap between his fingers. "You aren't interested in this work stuff."

She rests her chin in one hand. "Do I look bored?"

His brow furrows as he considers something. "No, but..."

"Raylan," she reaches across the table, covering his hand with hers. "If we're going to be partners in this marriage, _real _partners, you have to share with me, even things you think I won't like."

"You're startin' to sound just like Henry," he smirks.

"I know. Just trust me, okay? I'm not going to run off because you went down to Harlan and talked to someone." She raises an eyebrow and the corners of her mouth turn up. "No one got shot, right?"

"No" he sighs. "Not yet, anyway."

A nudge of worry pokes her, but she manages to keep the hint of a smile on her face. "But you're worried about Johnny. Isn't he in protective custody?"

"He was. But he wasn't takin' it all that seriously. Kept givin' this old marshal Art uses sometimes the slip. I told him to go on back to Harlan, so he did."

"And now you think Boyd is gonna come after him and you're going to lose your chance to get Boyd for murdering that guy Arlo took the fall for."

"Well, I'll be damned. You have been listenin'." He shoots her a grin and takes another long drink. "That about sums it up. And Art'll have nothin' to do with me goin' down to Harlan...so..." he lifts his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I guess it's outta my hands."


	38. Home Invasion

Raylan takes his eyes off the road long enough to steal a glance at Winona in the rearview mirror. "You awake back there?"

She covers a yawn before answering. "I am." She hooks her thumb at the car seat. "But this one here is down for the count." Luke's head is tilted to one side, his mouth working in his sleep.

"He'll make up for it around two a.m., most likely."

"It was nice of Art and Faylene to invite us over." She leans forward, rubbing the back of his neck with her thumb. " I was goin' a little stir crazy. It was good to get out of the house."

"I know what you mean," he sighs. He'd tried several times during the evening to engage Art in a conversation about Boyd's probable whereabouts and Johnny Crowder's possible testimony, but his boss had shot him down from every angle. He hates being out of the loop. He can't wait to get back to the office where he'll have other sources of information at his disposal.

Winona smiles down at the baby. "Art really likes using Luke's middle name, doesn't he?"

"Oh, you noticed," Raylan says with a chuckle as he pulls the car into the narrow driveway taking care to stay away from the bushes that separate them from the neighbors. "You grab the bag, I'll get him."

Winona slides out of the backseat, shifting the diaper bag to her shoulder and starting up the stone walkway to the back door. He ducks his head, reaching into the car and fumbling with the latch on the child safety seat. Luke is strapped in tighter than any dangerous fugitive he's ever hauled. It all seems a bit excessive. "Dammit," he mutters, as the hat slips off, falling onto the floor.

The contraption finally releases the carrier, the baby still sound asleep inside. He lifts it from the car, stooping to scoop up the hat in his other hand. Out of habit, he glances up and down the treelined street. It's quiet. It's suburbia. And it's a long way from Harlan. His son won't have to deal with any of that shit. He laughs softly to himself. "Come on, little man," he says to the baby. "Let's get you inside."

He enters through the backdoor that leads into the too-big kitchen. Winona isn't there, or in the family room, either, although she's turned on the Christmas tree. The colored lights twinkle from the corner. He sets the carrier down, undoing the clasp and lifting out his sleeping son. The baby's head lolls against his shoulder as he makes his way down the hall toward the nursery.

As he passes the guest bath, there's a high-pitched squeak behind him and he turns, his stomach dropping, guts twisting into a knot. Winona stands there, eyes wide. Her mouth is moving but no sound comes out. Ava stands behind her and Raylan can see the butt of the sawed off braced against her shoulder, the barrel aimed at the back of Winona's head.

He clutches the baby tighter, free hand reaching for the ever-present gun at his hip.

"Hold on just a minute now," says a smooth voice as a familiar figure steps out of the shadows behind Ava, his own gun drawn. "Seems like there's some negotiating to be done here. Why don't you put that gun down, Raylan?"

"I'll put mine down when Ava drops hers."

"Sorry, Raylan, but that's not gonna happen." Ava says. She pokes Winona who stumbles forward.

"What're you doin' here, Boyd? Thought you were in Mexico."

Boyd steps around the women, shaking his head and laughing. "Mexico, well, that would indeed be a pleasant change of scenery. I hear the pyramids in Chichen Itza are a sight to see. Those Mayans predicted the end of the world, but they didn't see the Spanish comin' did they?'

"What do you want?" Raylan says. He gestures to Ava, still holding the gun on Winona. "I assume you're wanting something, so let's get to it."

"Well now, Raylan, I need to have a word with my own personal Brutus...cousin Johnny. And you are gonna take me to him."

"What? Now you're Julius Caesar? I always figured you more for Iago."

"I have got to admit I am astonished you remember that much Shakespeare considering your high school attendance record. But this puts me more in mind of a fairy tale. Ava here's got a great big sawed off. Too big, most likely. You've got your lil' service weapon. But see my gun here?" There's a flash of white teeth. "I'd say it's just right and it puts the balance of power in our favor. So why don't you just set 'er on the floor, nice and slow? Try not to wake up that baby."

"I don't know where Johnny is," Raylan says. It's not really a lie. He has a pretty good idea where they might be holed up, but he can't know for sure.

"I think you do." Boyd's grin is the same as always. "It warms my heart, Raylan, to see this little family of yours." He dips his head to gaze at the sleeping child. "It's a boy, right? A son to carry on the Givens' name. Arlo'd be proud. I'd sure hate for anything to happen to his mama. A son and a mother, well now, that's a special bond, ain't it? So set your gun down, nice and easy like I said."

Raylan's jaw clenches as he stoops to place the gun on the floor. Boyd picks it up, sliding it into his jacket pocket.

Luke whimpers and Winona steps forward automatically, holding out her arms for the baby.

"Stop," Ava says, shoving the gun between her shoulder blades. Winona gasps, eyes wide and braces herself with one hand on the wall. The baby reacts to all this with an ear-splitting wail.

Winona takes a deep breath. "He's hungry. He's just hungry." Her voice rising above Luke's cries. She locks eyes with Raylan for a long moment. Just like in the motel room with Nix that night, he's surprised at her calm fortitude.

"Alright, then, take him," Ava says. "But move slow. I'm right behind you."

"I know." She takes the baby from Raylan and tilts her head toward Boyd. "I'd rather do this in private, if you don't mind." She nods toward the nursery door.

"Unfortunately, I do," Boyd says. "My apologies but Ava here will need to go with you."

Luke's wails dribble back into whimpers in his mother's arms and Winona shrugs, walking past them into the nursery, Ava and her sawed-off right behind. All Raylan can do is watch them go.

-o-o-O-o-o-

She keeps her eyes cast down on the baby or closed, taking deep calming breaths. The sight of Ava Crowder in the middle of the nursery wielding a shotgun is not one she wants seared into her memory. Luke nurses and she rocks, pushing the chair back and forth with her feet, humming. She can hear Ava pacing from one side of the small room to the other. A sliver of light from the street darts in when she lifts the curtain back to glance outside.

"I need to change him," she says, buttoning up when Luke is done. It's not asking permission, she won't give the woman that, but she isn't about to make any sudden moves, either. Ava seems more than a little jittery.

Ava nods. "Go ahead."

She unsnaps Luke's onesie and pulls off the diaper, making faces at him as he gazes up at her. His bright blue eyes mirror hers. They're not muddled with flecks of gray and green like his father's. Still, something behind them always reminds her of Raylan. A flash of fear goes through her and tears well in her throat, but she swallows them, smiling at her son. They've come too far. They'll all get out of this. Somehow.

As she bends to fetch a clean diaper out of the drawer, her eyes land on the baseball bat leaning against the changing table. She'd laughed at Raylan when he'd brought it in. It's smaller, t-ball sized, but Luke won't be ready for even that for a long time. She'd told Raylan as much. But he'd set it down, hung the child's glove on top and grinned at her, looking so much like a little boy himself she had to grin back. She'd left it there, instead of sticking it up on the closet shelf.

She casts a quick look over her shoulder at Ava while she secures the diaper and snaps the onesie. There's only going to be one chance. She has to hit her mark. Closing her eyes, she visualizes it, the same way her dance teacher always told them to practice in their heads how their body would move in space. Saying a silent prayer, she grabs the bat and swings.

It's the last thing Ava is expecting, and the first blow strikes her shoulder, sending the saw-off clattering to the floor. She screams and Winona raises the bat again, smacking it into the side of the other woman's head as she scrambles to retrieve her weapon. Ava crumples to the floor in a heap.

Winona, who'd been to the batting cage a few times when she and Raylan first started dating, looks down at her unconscious captor and whispers, "Home run."

The commotion sets Luke to wailing and brings the men running. "Ava!" Boyd yells, coming through the doorway. Winona has already scooped up the shotgun, but the unfamiliar weapon is no help in the small crowded room. Boyd hesitates for a critical moment, torn between concern for Ava and control of the situation. That split second is long enough. Raylan tackles the other man from behind, taking him down, hands at his throat.

The gun falls from Boyd's hand, bouncing on the soft-pile carpet. Winona kicks it into the hall. Boyd lands a blow on the side of Raylan's head, but Raylan doesn't release his grip on the other man's neck. They roll, Boyd trapped under Raylan's full weight, gasping for air.

"We're done." Raylan growls. "This is over." He pins Boyd's neck to the floor with his forearm and wrestles his Glock out of Boyd's pocket. He stares for a moment into the other man's eyes. "If you expect an easy bullet to the brain like you gave Devil, you're about to be disappointed." He slams the butt of the gun into Boyd's head, knocking him out cold.

Winona snatches the baby, his sobs fading to anguished hiccups. Wrapping him in her arms she sinks to the floor, trembling. Raylan scoots up to lean against the wall next to her. "You two okay?" His voice is soft, careful.

She nods. "We're fine."

"Guess I won't be the only one teaching Luke here how to swing a bat."

She manages a smile.

He sighs. "I'm sor..."

She puts a finger to his lips. "Stop. This wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known they'd come here."

He pulls her close, Luke sandwiched between them, and buries his face in her hair.

_A/N Many thanks to MSBrooklyn. This is better because of you.  
_


	39. An Epilogue, of Sorts

Statements have been taken, evidence bagged, and separate ambulances have hauled Boyd and Ava away. Raylan closes the door behind Rachel and Tim, grateful that they agreed not to disturb Art tonight. Through the window he watches his fellow marshals get into their car and drive away. Turning, he finds Winona behind him, Luke sleeping against her shoulder. He wraps his arms around them again, pulling them close. "You sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine, Raylan."

"I'll buy him another bat."

She laughs, soft, and kisses the downy hair on the top of their baby's head. "No hurry."

He runs a hand through her hair, tugging gently.

"What?" She looks up, palm flat on his chest. "You don't think I'm fine?"

"You just surprised me tonight, that's all."

"I guess that's a good thing," she murmurs, raising up on her tiptoes to kiss him.

-o-o-O-o-o-

"So let me get this straight...Boyd and Ava broke into your house and held you all - including little Luke - hostage and Winona hasn't headed for the hills?" Art raises the bottle and when Raylan nods, pours a bit more into his glass. "How'd you manage that?"

"I don't know. Guess she can't resist my charms after all." Raylan shakes his head, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth. He takes a sip, swallowing the fire. "She's tougher than she looks. She did a pretty good number on Ava with Luke's bat."

Art tosses an open file onto the desk. "Concussion. Seems Boyd had one, too."

"That wasn't Winona."

"I didn't think it was."

-o-o-O-o-o-

"So what're you gonna do with yourself now?" Tim pushes away from the desk puts his hands behind his head, stretching out his legs.

Raylan feigns innocence, even though he knows exactly where Tim is going with the question. "Right now? I'm gonna copy this file and head on home."

"Not _now_now." Wadding up the wrapper from his sub, he tosses it at the trash can. It bounces off the wall and the rim, landing on the floor by Rachel's desk. Tim wheels the chair over, picks it up and shoots again, raising his arms in the air when it goes in. "I meant...," he says, twirling the chair back around to face Raylan. "...what're you gonna do now that Boyd Crowder's in prison for good?"

"Don't jinx it," Raylan says, striking his knuckles on the door frame - _knock on wood_- he thinks. "Boyd's beaten the odds before."

"He's already confessed to shooting Delray Pitts and dumpin' him down that mine shaft."

"Yeah, but he didn't do that."

Tim shrugs. "Johnny said he did under oath and Boyd took the plea." He straightens in his chair and clicks the mouse to wake up his computer. "Good thing the judge wasn't watching your face during that testimony. You don't play a lot of poker, do you?"

"Johnny's half in love with Ava. Always has been." Raylan grabs the copies and sticks them in the file, sliding it onto the top of the stack on his desk. He'll get it to Art tomorrow. "And Boyd can't stand the thought of her never gettin' outta prison." He slides the hat on and shrugs into his jacket. "He was goin' down anyway, why not save her if he could? Call it Harlan County chivalry."

"You disappointed that Johnny took back the whole thing 'bout Devil?"

Raylan shakes his head slowly under the hat. "Arlo's dead. We still got Boyd. I guess it don't really matter to me how."

"And Ava?"

Raylan's mouth turns down, pensive. "She'll do some time for complicity in Delray's murder and pandering for prostitution. Probably less than five." He shrugs. "After that, I'd guess she'll go back to Harlan. It's all she knows. And Johnny'll likely still be there. Maybe they'll hook up and she'll go back to runnin' Audrey's."

"More shit-kicker on shit-kicker crime you ain't interested in." Tim deadpans.

"Exactly."

-o-o-O-o-o-

Raylan rolls over, breathing hard, and Winona snuggles against him, throwing one smooth leg over his. "Ummmm," she murmurs, pressing her lips to the throbbing pulse at his neck. "All the books I've read say parenthood is supposed to wreak havoc with your sex life."

"I told you those books were a waste of time." He kisses the top of her head.

"_Now _are you glad you decided to come home for lunch?" She teases.

"I might not have protested if you'd've just told me the doctor gave you the okay."

"What fun would that have been?" She laughs.

He taps her nose with one finger. "And besides, how did I know you got a sitter? I thought you said you were never letting that baby out of your sight."

She sighs. "I may have said that. But it was _so _nice to get my hair done and I even had time to run to the grocery store before I called you. Besides, it'll be good practice in case I decide to go back to work."

He turns his head. "You want to go back? This is the first I've heard of that."

"I told you I ran into Judge Reardon last week when I brought Luke to the office? He said that I was missed and if I wanted to come back he'd find a place for me."

"You don't have to, you know that, right? Although, a little extra money would help."

She nods, her hair tickling his chin. "Yes, and as much as I love our little guy," another sigh. "I think I am eventually going to miss taking to grown-ups."

He raises an eyebrow. "I'm a grown-up."

She laughs, and her hand drifts south. "Yes, you most definitely are." She stretches up to whisper in his ear. "I don't have to pick up Luke from Rachel's mother for another hour."

"I really should get back to the office."

"I'd hate to waste that money I'm paying her," she pouts. She pushes up, one hand flat against his chest and straddles him.

"Well," he grins up at her, grasping her hips with both hands. "When you put it that way..."

-o-o-O-o-o-

The End _Maybe_

A/N The author reserves the right to revisit this universe whenever the current situation between Raylan and Winona (the love of his life) on the actual show becomes too depressing to handle.


End file.
